From Banked Fires

North to Alaska...Outside Influences

2009-09-17T17:40:00.000-07:00

Early morning, the fourth of September. I was still trying to get Todo to eat some of Jack's oatmeal for breakfast, but not having any luck. Just as well; it left more for us, and it was warm, filling and welcome on a cold, crisp morning.

Rain was coming down steadily, making our rain gear and hip boots indispensable. They were the only way we had stayed somewhat warm and semi-dry. Clouds settled in and for some time now had prevented us from seeing the magnificent peaks across the bay.

We observed small, fast boats working the shoreline--hunting bear the easy way, we presumed. Todo and I pulled at the oars as we skimmed briskly across the surface of the bay. We shot toward the mouth of the stream and the area we had been hunting for the past few days. Two strangers in a speeding boat rounded the point, and seeing our intent, speeded up and raced to the beached barge, intending to cut off our access to the area.

They beached and tied off near the wreckage as one of them jumped out, rifle in hand, peering upstream. It was obvious they intended to claim the area and acted as though we did not exist. I forced conversation by asking if they were hunting. "Yep," one replied. "Good luck. We've been working this stream for the last three days," I replied. We moved past them and on upstream as if there had been no conflict of intentions.

Some half a mile beyond them we pulled the canoe into heavy cover, secured it and headed into the forest, working together for an hour or so before deciding to separate for a while. Todo took up a position settling into the crest of a sheer bluff overlooking our stream and a small opening below. I worked my way down the cliff face and used a fallen log to cross over without getting wet. Our stamina was improving. I looked over my shoulder, waved at Todo and moved off and away up the other slope.

The forest was beautiful, but thick. Had it not been for the temperature, I'd have sworn I was in a tropical rain forest. Finally breaking clear of heavy growth, I moved into an open meadow and took up a position on its far side with an active game trail in view. A light drizzle turned into a steady rain. I couldn't recall, hard as I tried, who had said "bear hunting is always best in the rain."

As the mantle of dusk settled around us, we had come back together and moved downstream in our canoe. The two men we had seen earlier had beached their boat on our island near our camp but were nowhere in sight. We struggled to reach the island quickly. We felt outrage and a degree of helplessness at the same time. Larry and Jack's canoe shot into view. They reached the island well ahead of us. They had already been aboard their canoe when they saw the strangers slide onto the rocky beach of our island. We saw Larry and his dad move into the forest immediately upon making shore. Their visit with the strangers was short, efficient and to the point. We saw the interlopers break free of the treeline, leap into their boat and leave a small rooster tail in their wake as they shot across the water, seeking only distance and refuge. They never bothered us again. Tomorrow was to be our last full day on the island. We wanted to make it count.

North To Alaska... Small Things

2009-09-11T02:36:00.000-07:00

The rising sun had to worry its way through heavy, laden clouds this morning. It never really broke through. The light would brighten, then dim depending on the density of the clouds. We were kind of lazy around camp, and mid-morning were surprised to hear the distant hum of an engine slowly increasing in volume. A bush pilot dropped through the dense cloud cover and landed deep in the bay, much nearer to the mainland. He and a companion offloaded gear and set up their camp beyond the treeline on the beach. This cut us off from several tributaries we wanted to explore. There went the neighborhood!

Todo and I canoed to the same stream we had explored yesterday. I shucked my backpack and, using it as a pillow, stretched out on the bank, watching Todo through hooded eyes. With infinite patience, he cast repeatedly into the churning water. There were thousands of fish, but he never got a strike. A fine mist settled in, and water trickled off our ponchos and the brims of our caps. I dozed briefly, then sat up and stretched. An idea had formed. Protected by chest waders, I slowly eased into the water. Going out until it was knee deep, I turned and faced upstream. Resting my elbows on my knees, I looked into the water and waited.

Within a few seconds, a large bull silver salmon surged between my legs. I grabbed it just ahead of its tail, straightened up and threw it at Todo's feet. "Knock him in the head with a rock, would you, pard? I'll get another one," I coaxed. By the time Todo found a rock and dispatched the fish, I had thrown another at his feet and stood there grinning proudly. He frowned, staring at me, then looked at the rod and reel in his hand. After a couple of seconds, he glanced up at me, smiling around the cigar clamped in his teeth. He tossed the rod backward over his shoulder. Laughing out loud, he joined me in the stream. That's how we fished from then on.

We returned to camp with two good fish each. They were quickly filleted and fried up on the camp stove. Larry and his dad had stayed in camp to rest up from yesterday. Our joints and muscles were in revolt from what we had put them through the day before. The smell of the frying fish was intoxicating. It woke Larry, who came staggering out of his tent. He was a sight, with reddened eyes, tousled hair and knotted fists digging into the small of his aching back. Being extremely fatigued, his morning hunt started a bit late--around three o'clock that afternoon, as I recall.

Rain had settled in around nine that morning. It would come hard, then lighten up. It would not stop for the next 28 hours. Nothing stayed dry. Realizing rain was a constant companion, we returned to the mainland mid-afternoon. Todo and I worked our way once again up our stream. We stayed near the water and worked along the banks, zig-zagging from side to side using dead falls as natural bridges. We crossed back and forth across the water several times.

At one point we rested on the edge of a high-walled crossing spanned by a huge dead fall. An eddy had formed beside a large boulder in the churning rush below. Within that small, perfect pool of clarity, suspended and motionless, was the largest rainbow trout I had ever seen. Briefly, sunlight filtered through the prism of water and reflected a dazzling array of color from his scales beneath the surface. His tail undulated slowly from side to side.

Todo rested a hand on my shoulder and indicated with a whisper he was going to try to catch him. He inched down the bank and eased into the water a short distance upstream. I had never seen him show such patience. Ever so slowly, he approached the eddy. He seemed to become one with the rocks and the water. He eased forward and approached the fish an inch at a time. The depth hovered just above his waist. Almost too slowly to see, his right hand rose in the water. The palm faced up and was cupped slightly. He ever so lightly stroked the underside of that trout, sliding his hand gently back along its length. Then, his fingers locked around the trunk just before reaching the tail. Water exploded around and over him. Lifting the huge fish high over his head, he laughed aloud in delight, almost falling. For an instant, he transcended humanity and almost became a god of the forest. Larger than life, he had briefly touched perfection and rejoiced in it.

You know, he never did catch a fish with the $40 reel he purchased at the 'Hook, Line & Sinker' back in Valdez.

* This posting is dedicated to the 2,819 innocents murdered on this date in 2001 in a senseless act of madness.

North To Alaska... Into The Wilds

2009-09-04T02:52:00.000-07:00

With the canoe pulled into heavy cover, we began to work our way inland. Walking beside the stream, we saw numerous bear tracks and partially eaten salmon. Moving away from the banks we encountered deep beds of peat moss. Various ferns and broad-leafed plants were profuse. Jack had identified one as broad leaf Astor, remembering seeing them on an earlier outing in Canada. More huge trees towered over us, and the undergrowth was dragging against our every step. We searched for more open country hoping we could see a greater distance.

Finally we broke free of the jungle and were somewhat startled to find ourselves on the perimeter of a huge open meadow. The thick beds of peat made walking extremely tedious and we tired quickly. On occasion, what appeared to be solid ground gave way suddenly beneath our feet. A leg could plunge into submerged pools of water, hidden until you stepped into them. For this reason, when away from camp we lived in chest waders and prodded ahead with staffs cut for that purpose.

We covered a considerable area, though resting frequently. Beautiful views emerged. Snow-crested mountains surrounded Fidalgo Bay. At one point, a group of mountain goats on a sheer bluff emerged some distance away. We enjoyed watching them through binoculars and observing their antics, but knew the range was too great. We could never pull off a successful stalk and pack out an animal before dark descended. After last night, we did not want to be caught out here by the setting sun.

Turning and working slowly downward, we reentered the dense forest growth. The peat moss was amazing. It embraced any fallen tree and absorbed it into a soft smothering blanket of green sponge. Forcing our way onward through the verdant growth, we could see no more than some thirty yards at best. Bear sign was very prevalent. There would be no room for error if we came upon one of the brutes now. The words of our boat captain rushed back to me. "Never hunt alone. A bear's heart only beats twelve or thirteen times a minute--you can blow his heart to bits and he still has two or three minutes to be thoroughly pissed at you before he cashes in!" Sage advice!

Completing the descent down a nearly sheer wall of some thirty feet, we walked side by side along a ridge that was ten to fifteen feet wide. Below and away, another wall dropped an additional forty feet into the rapids of the rushing stream beneath us. I saw Todo hesitate, then stop. We had hunted so long together, my reaction was immediate. I froze, looking to the spot his nod indicated. From the thicket ahead, I saw the vapor of breath floating in the still, cold air. Dropping to one knee, I rested my elbow and rifle on the other. We were hot and somewhat winded. I pulled in deep lungs full of air and waited for my pulse to settle. We watched the clouds of breath form and disperse regularly in the air ahead.

Breathing evenly, I gripped my rifle tightly, nodded at Todo, and we separated to approach the dense growth from different angles. We were now right on top of it. The breath disappeared as we eased into the lair. There was no sign of the animal. A limb snapped off to the right and we waited expectantly. The imprints of huge pads littered the area. We moved slowly ahead. The bluff below was rent by the passage of the large beast as it descended to the stream beneath. There was no visible sign of it. There was only the stillness and the lingering musky smell of its body hanging in the air. The sound of water gurgled below. We felt far more relief than disappointment. The encounter had not been on our terms at all. Some time later, we found our canoe and pushed off.

We relished rare steaks and scotch for supper. A simple meal, but one of the most enjoyable in my memory. Later, we sat on the shoreline of our temporary home with arms folded over our knees, smoking cigars and enjoying a symphony of the night. Not of sound, but sight, as the Northern Lights splayed their sparkling hews of magic across the silent velvet expanse of a flawless Alaskan sky.

North To Alaska... Staking A Claim

2009-08-28T04:00:00.000-07:00

We had been told of a plywood platform constructed in the heart of a huge spruce grove near the center of the island. A prolonged study of bald eagles had been conducted from this site years earlier. It was there we intended to set up camp. Supposedly, there were no bears on this island. It was said one rested much more soundly knowing that a large Kodiak bear would not wake you digging a Snicker bar out of your shirt pocket in the middle of the night.

Sleet pelted us as we lowered our canoes over the side of 'The Alaskan Dream.' The four of us began to ferry food, camping gear, tents, weapons, bedding and a large variety of personal effects ashore. The wind had risen and the tides ran strong as we worked against the elements to achieve our goal. It proved impossible to hit the island shoreline at the same point with each transfer, so we ended up with supplies scattered up and down a 100-yard stretch of rocky beach. The tide was moving strongly out, and it proved quite difficult to locate the wooden platforms in the dark and driving sleet.

We finally established our campsite, and Larry and his dad began the work of constructing camp as Todo and I carried our supplies up from the various landing points along the beach. The trees and vegetation were extremely thick. Sweat soaked us from within and freezing rain sought us from without. Our breath huffed steaming plumes into the air as we moved through an Arctic jungle. A small dome of lantern light pushed back against heavy darkness that would have been complete.

There was no topsoil as such. A type of peat moss covered everything, making walking very difficult and tedious. The camp was finally assembled and secure. We fell into our bedding, completely exhausted, taken by sleep that was immediate and without dreams.

My eyes fluttered open just before the sky began to brighten the next morning. Slipping out of the tent, I soon had coffee boiling over the camp stove. During the night, the clouds had broken and bright stars were beginning to fade away into the early light of dawn. It was now in the mid-forties, and the others began to stir. We were in awe of the new world surrounding us. Huge spruce trees towered overhead.

Random droplets trickled from the boughs high above. When they passed through spots of air open to the rays of the newly risen sun, they would explode into flashes of brilliance in that golden light, then vanish passing again into shadow. Various ferns and smaller trees were abundant. Bald eagles roosted in the limbs above. Crimson streaked stray clouds in the sky beyond the canopy above. Bacon crackled in a cast-iron skillet on the stove top. Thoughts turned to breakfast, which was savored and unrushed.

Todo and I paired off in one of the canoes, stowed our gear and pushed off into the bay. Larry and his dad (now dubbed 'Yukon' Jack) moved to our right, moving east and deeper into the glassy waters. After several minutes, we approached the mainland. Ahead, a strong stream surged as its waters rushed to merge with those of the bay. Slack jawed, we observed silver salmon fighting their way upstream by the thousands, with the water roiling under their assault. We dug oars deeply into the water and pulled our canoe through the open mouth of that stream, passing what appeared to be an old mining barge beached some distance inland along the banks. Its timbers still appeared solid despite its obvious age.

Perhaps half a mile upstream, we pulled the canoe onto the bank into heavy cover. Bear sign was plentiful. Half-eaten fish, bear tracks and other sign littered the shore. Gulls swarmed overhead by the hundreds. They were joined by a good scattering of bald eagles. Everything seemed to be feeding on the glut of fish. Many of the salmon appeared healthy as I squatted to study them. They defied irresistible currents to fight upstream, find the perfect spot and lay their treasured eggs. This done, their bodies now battered by semi-submerged rocks and boulders, the salmon ceased to fight and drifted listlessly, slowly back downstream.

The birds dove with tireless beaks striking at the salmon broken bodies. The assault continued as they drifted listlessly back toward the bay, finally dying. Many were consumed by the birds and animals on shore. Others gently settled back into the still depths of the bay to feed other aquatic life. Otters frolicked and feasted across the bays in large numbers. Fleeting shapes of larger fish would flash by our canoes, just below the surface. Before our disbelieving eyes, an amazing panorama of life, death and rebirth was playing out its great drama.

North to Alaska... We're There!

2009-08-21T04:00:00.000-07:00

It was just after eleven p.m. on August 31st as we crossed the state line into Alaska. The lone custom agent at the remote post had once been stationed in El Paso and even knew of our hometown of Premont. He flew into his current post daily in a single-engine Cessna. He was so thrilled to have people to see and talk with that it was difficult to break off and continue onward. He had answered many of our questions, providing us with a wealth of information.

Two hours later, we rolled into the settlement of Tok, Alaska. A red and green neon light flashed its welcome to a motel constructed to serve the workers brought in to build the great Alaskan Pipeline. It retained the feel of the boom days. The rooms were small and snug with clean sheets over beds that cocooned you in comfort. There were common showers for men to scrub down in. Amid steaming plumes of steam we sluiced away the grime of the day and eased the strain of muscles knotted and sore from prolonged abuse. It was a perfect respite from our long journey. Photographs of the construction work and nameless men lined the hallways.

As late as it was, Todo and I shared a toddy and reflected back over experiences we had shared and how unique this one was proving to be. The history of the place was strongly woven into its very fabric. It was a tangible, living thing surrounding us. I noticed in mid-sentence that Todo was snoring softly. Turning off the bedside lamp and closing my eyes, I was swept away. We slept like the children we had once been.

It's daylight now and we are pushing south out of Tok. Rested and refreshed after a good night's sleep, Larry and Jack look like different men. We still had a good drive ahead of us, with the port city of Valdez our goal. Streams and rivers flowed everywhere. Beautiful snow-capped peaks surrounded us. We were amazed and stopped to gawk at Bridal and Horsetail Falls.

Finally, we climbed through a saddle between two peaks and saw Valdez resting around a sparkling bay below us. There were gulls and bald eagles working the air over that shining bay as we slowly drove into the town. Various boats were tied along the docks, where sea otters rolled and chirped in the crisp sheen of the water. The clarity was such that you could see giant crabs prowling the floor of the bay just off the docks. Huge storage tanks held oil flowing from the great pipeline to the port to be loaded onto tankers for the long journey to fuel industry around the world.

Just after four o'clock that afternoon, we moved off the docks and into a sporting goods store called 'The Hook, Line & Sinker.' We purchased hunting and fishing licenses, then made contact with our boat captain, Jeff of 'The Alaskan Dream.' He was set to ferry us and our supplies some 37 miles southwest of Valdez into an area along the coast where we would be fishing and hunting bear. Captain Jeff and his first mate Chuck helped us load our gear aboard his boat.

Captain Jeff wanted to wait until morning to depart and was more than a little reluctant to chance the passage in darkness. We, however, wanted to waste no time in establishing our base camp. Time was a factor in our calculations. Our arguments prevailed as our possessions were stowed in the hold and strapped onto the deck of the boat. We labored beneath towering glacial ice straddling saddles in the mountains around the harbor. Their ancient frozen hues of bluish green were pierced by the slanting rays of a sun riding ever lower on the western horizon. The waters of the bay were like gazing into glass. The clarity was amazing.

Before boarding, I called Bonnie from the docks and was thrilled to hear her voice over the impossible distance. Our voices lagged a couple of seconds due to available technology. I tried to describe and will her into my surroundings, though that was impossible. Finally, saying goodbye, I slipped the mooring lines, then leaped aboard the boat as we began to maneuver through the harbor toward our destination of Fidalgo Bay and the island that was to become our home for the next five days. Todo took a fierce ribbing as we discovered his tendency toward sea sickness.

As the light faded, we passed a land-locked Indian village, which Captain Jeff told us had been constructed entirely with federal funds. There were no roads in or out of the community, making it accessible only by water. He related that the Indians apparently nurtured a strong distrust of whites and only allowed three outsiders to live in the village. Two of these were a married couple who taught school and the third was a Russian Orthodox priest. The golden dome of that church glowed brightly in the twilight. Necessary supplies were offloaded on village docks, and only rarely did any of their people venture into Valdez.

We surged into a heavy fog bank. A steady drizzle soon turned into freezing rain. Our sense of time and distance began to blur. Darkness fell. We seemed to crawl over the surface of the water. Much later, an island slowly materialized within the fog. We dropped anchor some 200 yards offshore. The captain would venture no closer. He feared running aground on submerged boulders and breaching his hull. The sleet grew heavier and the clouds denser, robbing us of any trace of lingering light. Our island was now a smudge on the horizon. Penetrating cold chilled us to the bone. I glanced back over my shoulder. The captain's face was illuminated in the soft glow of a lantern. He arched his bushy eyebrows and grinned. It was time to go ashore.

North to Alaska . . . Above the 49th

2009-08-14T12:00:00.000-07:00

On August 31st around five o'clock in the morning, we crossed from British Columbia into the fabled Yukon Territory. Streams and rivers ran fresh and clear. Flashes of fall colors exploded in the golden sunlight of early morning. Grandeur seems an inadequate word to describe being visually overwhelmed by the shades of red, bright yellow and hues of brown scattered through varying shades of green among the juniper, spruce and pine. Random bursts of fall blossoms rippled in the cool breeze flowing over the slopes.

We viewed herds of wild horses or mustangs that still ran free in this rugged country. A bunch of bighorn sheep cascaded off a steep slope as we rounded a bend in the crusted road. We ground to a stop as they did, briefly, and stared in surprise and wonder at each other. The leader slowly turned and huffed. Their hooves thundered and they were gone. A young bull elk regarded us calmly as we paused again, then moved on.

We had just completed the most difficult stretch of our journey. It traversed some 320 miles spanning the distance between Fort Nelson in British Columbia and Watson Lake in the Yukon Territory. The road was full of curves and layered in gravel rather than paved for the most part. We slowly pressed forward through the darkness along the treacherous route. A chilled, persistent mist settled over us as our headlights punched ahead and jerked from side to side. Numerous beaver were seen along the road throughout the night passage.

It grew quite cold. The rear window of the Wagoneer shattered when one of the rear tires slung a rock into the front of the trailer, which ricocheted forward through the glass. Stopping to clear shattered glass from the rear of the vehicle, we noted ice was forming on the tarp covering our possessions in the trailer. Freezing slush and dirt formed into blocks of ice in the wheel wells and had to be broken and cleared away periodically.

The clouds burned away as the day progressed, then flowed back in late in the afternoon. We approached the end of our journey through the Yukon Territories. How to describe it? Sheer, towering mountains layered and colored by varying strata of tundra or grass. Kluane Lake was huge, to the point of seeming to be a bay, complete with whitecaps, with a surface area encompassing more than 150 square miles. The mountains dwarfed the Rockies that Bonnie and I have known and loved so long in Colorado. We passed through the city of White Horse, capitol of The Yukon with a population of 18,000--almost two-thirds of the people living in the entire province. We pushed on.

Twilight settled in at 10:20 p.m. as we rolled into the entrance to a lodge and inquired about supper. The owner was a polite man with an expansive, ruddy face and a beaming smile. However, he refused to serve us as he had committed to an early-morning grouse hunt the following day. We thanked him, changed drivers, grabbed a couple of candy bars and pulled back onto the road, threading west and a little north. It seemed that the fading sunlight had to be streaming from the mythical land we pursued with such determination--a boyhood dream called 'Alaska.'

North to Alaska . . . Heading Out

2009-08-11T12:11:00.000-07:00

On August 27, 1988, Todo Myane, another friend Larry, Larry's father Jack and I left the sprawling metroplex of Dallas, setting our sights to the north and the fabled 'Land of the Midnight Sun' . . . Alaska.

Planning an early start, unexpected delays and extended preparations extended our departure until around six that afternoon. The temperature was still hovering around 102 when we found ourselves headed north. We drove a Jeep Wagoneer with two canoes strapped on the top, with a tarp-covered trailer in tow. As we rolled northwestward across a barren Texas landscape, dust devils and shimmering waves of heat created mirages in the distance. The air was hot and arid, and it felt as if we were breathing air from a furnace when we left the air-conditioned comfort inside our vehicle.

The sign read 'Welcome to the Land of Enchantment' as we crossed the border into New Mexico. The last light of the sun bled into the barren landscape and cast the few fleecy clouds in crimson as it slowly melted into the distant horizon. We continued the push toward Raton Pass in the fading twilight. A strong gust of wind slammed into the side of the Wagoneer, and the vehicle rocked against the force as we slowed to a stop to change drivers. Stepping out onto the shoulder, I felt the fresh chill of a strong north wind flowing around me. We pushed north into it, thrilled that the heat fell away into the lower sixties. The climb up to Raton brought us briefly into the realm of granite, pine-covered mountains. Light snow fleeced the very tops of some peaks. We rolled down windows a bit and pulled the cool sweet air into our lungs. All too soon, we descended back to the desert floor, pushing on through Pueblo, Colorado Springs and into Denver.

We had remained to the east of the Rockies, moving through sparsely vegetated foothills. Small groups of antelope were spotted occasionally along the way. We stopped briefly in Denver for vehicle maintenance, then moved on north through Colorado into Wyoming. I had not been here since a young boy on vacation with my family, and a young boy's memories came flooding back--log cabins with wood heaters burning compressed one-pound coffee can sized chunks of pine sawdust, black bears rummaging through trash cans outside looking for snacks, Old Faithful spewing plumes of steaming water high into the frigid air, a moose walking, unconcerned, along the side of a lake with impossibly blue water, his great antlers and strange beard rocking gently from side to side. These bits and pieces flowed unbidden from the past and lived again briefly in my mind.

We only paused to eat or change drivers, stopping briefly in Cheyenne, Wyoming, to check the possibility of an antelope hunt. We discovered that all available buck permits had already been issued, so we pushed forward into Montana.

Todo and I never tire of each other's company. We entertained Larry and his dad with tales of growing up together in the small town of Premont, deep in the Brush Country of South Texas. We had gotten into and out of so many situations that the telling of one story would trigger the memory of another. Our childhoods had been touched by magic. On the rare occasions when conversation lagged, we would break into an off-key chorus of "North To Alaska" by Johnny Horton. Apologies to him!

The Montana foothills slowly gained in height. Even here, we saw and smelled smoke from the great wildfires in Wyoming that were ravaging so much of the Yellowstone country. We heard a news report of a father who had taken his wife and two children camping in the area of the fires. That night the wind changed and flames swept over and through their campsite. He dragged his wife and children into a nearby stream and shrouded them in soaking sleeping bags to filter out the smoke so they could breathe. He was hailed as a hero. We viewed him as a complete fool. Who would take his family into the proximity of an inferno consuming tens of thousands of acres?

A beautiful mule deer buck crossed in our headlights. We later saw a freshly killed bear on the shoulder of the road. It had been hit and killed by a vehicle. Due to the steep cuts on each side of the road, we were unable to turn around and get a good look at the huge animal. We had driven almost continuously and crossed from Sweetgrass, Montana, into Canada just after sunrise on the morning of August 29th. This part of Canada appeared similar to West Texas. The crops were either wheat or alfalfa.

Entering Calgary, we witnessed a large, beautiful modern city. The roads and highways were excellent and exceeded ours back home in some respects. Farther north, we had an excellent meal near the community of Red Deer, meeting wonderful, gracious people along our way.

August 30th. Our first stop for showers and sleep under clean sheets was last night. The trip is taking a bit longer than planned due to a couple of maintenance delays, but is still going really well.

We have driven into beautiful forests. I see juniper, aspen and birch in abundance. The air is clear and sweet. Small lakes and ponds are numerous, many created by beaver dams of various sizes. Canada, thus far, is beautiful beyond description. We have just passed through Dawson Creek and embarked on the Alaska Highway. Images conjured by Jack London through 'The Call of the Wild' and 'White Fang' begin to materialize. Home stretch! There are only about 1,500 miles to go. We passed through Fort St. John. The Peace River overwhelms!

An Unexpected Outcome

2009-04-17T08:02:00.000-07:00

A cool, gentle breeze had moved through the windows and screen door of the cabin since Bonnie and I had dozed off a couple of hours earlier. I rolled onto my side in my bunk, enjoying the comfort of the unzipped bedroll and the soft movement of cool air around me. Bonnie shut the front door with some force. The noise hung on the fringe of my awareness. "Bill, wake up!" she insisted in a voice just above a whisper. She repeated the phrase a couple more times as I reluctantly opened my eyes and attempted to focus in the darkness.

"There's a large dog just outside the screen door, and it's wearing a collar!" she asserted. Coming fully awake, I swung my legs over the side of the bunk. My pistol was in my hand as I reviewed the implications of what my wife had just told me. Dogs meant people, and we were very far from any known neighbors. The family ranch in McMullen County, Texas, was remote by any standards. I whispered her into silence, assuring her that I was awake. We were five locked gates and miles from the nearest highway. The Rio Grande and city of Laredo were less than 100 miles away. Drug traffic, smuggling guns and money, murders between rival gang factions and illegal immigrants flowed across the border near this area in record numbers. People should not be on this ranch or around this bunkhouse this time of night nor during the day. I told Bonnie her pistol was on the shelf nearby, and we sat quietly as we strained to hear any noise or catch a glimmer of light in the silence and absolute darkness that surrounded us. There was nothing. I moved quietly to sit at an angle rather than in direct line with the open window.

The silence stretched on. One hour. Two. The dog did not growl or bark. We could hear his pads and claws slide over the concrete surface outside. Occasionally he would shake all over, and the noise of his ears snapping against his head was audible. These were the only breaks in the gentle sound of wind drifting through the mesquite branches in the moonless night. Our vigil was approaching three hours. The prolonged silence reassured us. We knew we were relatively safe in the cabin. The darkness we shared inside was even deeper than the inky blackness outside the cabin. It would be impossible for a person to move about outside without some kind of light or stumbling over one of the many obstacles scattered around the yard. We were reasonably sure we were alone, except for the dog. Our eyelids grew heavy. We slept.

When Bonnie next woke it was still dark outside. She needed to step out of the cabin. I approached and slid the bolt out of its setting on the door, and extending the revolver slightly ahead of me, I followed it outside. There was no sound or motion. Bonnie eased out behind me, the beam of her light cutting a sharp swath into the darkness as she moved it left to right. It settled on our chairs which sat before a dimly glowing mound of embers emitting the faintest of glows from beneath a fleecy layer of ash that now layered them. "There he is," she whispered.

The head of the dog rested on the arm of my chair, where he had taken refuge for the night. There was a look of infinite weariness in his eyes. He made no move toward us. He made no sound. I approached him slowly with the barrel of the pistol extended toward his head in the event he showed any signs of aggression. I spoke to him quietly as Bonnie rounded the side of the house. I allowed him to smell my hand before laying it gently on his head. His head remained on the chair arm as I gently scratched his ears. His tail began to thump against the chair back.

Bonnie moved back around to the front of the cabin and noticed me stroking the dog. As she entered the bunkhouse she thought that he appeared to be a Boxer, but I noted two things immediately. One was that he was a Pit Bull, which can be a ferocious breed, and second, that he was fully encased in heavy canvas body armour. I mentioned neither of these things until Bonnie had gone back inside, and when I told her I thought he was a Pit Bull, her eyebrows arched up in surprise as she watched us through the screen door.

I slowly unbuckled the six-inch wide collar that protected his neck. Then came the line of buckles running down the length of his spine that held his chest and abdominal armour in place. As the kevlar reinforced shield fell away, he released a huge breath of relief. He scratched at places he had been unable to reach for days and rolled freely in the dirt.

After gathering an armload of firewood, I fed it to the smouldering bed of coals in the fire pit. The rich aroma of mesquite smoke lifted into the stillness that preceded the dawn. I drained water into the coffee pot, noting the layers of soot feathered across the lower third of it. Fresh coffee went into the bail and I rested the pot over the blue flame of the stove top, waiting for it to come to a boil. I then retrieved scraps of steak left over from our supper the night before and set them before our new friend. My hand searched out a cigar from the inside pocket of my brush jacket. It bloomed to life as I leaned over, placing its tip into the blue flame beneath the coffee pot, and drawing the sweet taste of it into my mouth. Slowly easing into the rocking chair in front of the dancing flames of the campfire, I studied our visitor.

He quickly finished his meager meal, looked up at me, walked over to the chair and placed his head on my knee. There was pure gratitude in those beautiful amber eyes. His tail began to wag slowly. He won my heart as I stroked his head and scratched his ears. Soon the coffee began to gurgle in the pot and Bonnie joined us with her own cup of coffee. She, too, was entranced by this amazing dog. Searching through the chuck boxes, she found several cans of stew and prepared a makeshift breakfast for him. What a magnificent animal.

We inspected his heavy, discarded collar and discovered a name and phone number from the town of George West, some 45 miles away from the ranch. Bonnie studied the dog closely, noting how emaciated he was. It was obvious that he was a hunting animal from his protective gear. Wild hogs would have difficulty penetrating it to do him serious injury. Hogs roam the brush country in large groups or packs, seriously damaging the few dry land crops put in and preying on newborn calves and wildlife. With maturity, hogs produce enormous tusks and represent what can be a vicious, destructive force. Hunting them and thinning their numbers is an ongoing effort on the part of area ranchers.

Bonnie prepared a wonderful breakfast of tortillas and huevos rancheros as I began to pack away supplies and load the truck for our journey home. We would pass through George West on the way, so I called the number off the collar and left a message to the woman's voice on the recording. The dog stayed with Bonnie step for step. He would occasionally lie down and follow our motions with those bright, intelligent eyes while we moved around the camp. Bonnie expressed concern that he be returned only to decent, caring hands. He had won her heart as well as mine. We called him Mac, as the ranch was situated in McMullen County. It seemed to fit him.

With the truck finally loaded and the camp squared away for the next visitors, we prepared to head out. I dropped the tailgate to let Mac jump into the bed of the truck, but he was too weak so I lifted him in. He curled up and seemed happy to be moving. We made it through the five locked gates and worked our way back to the pavement on Highway 16. The trip to George West went fairly quickly as we journeyed to the east, then north for the final run into town.

About three miles south of our destination we saw two women stranded on the shoulder of the road in an old pickup. They were waving frantically at us in hopes we would stop. I looked over at Bonnie as I hit the brakes. She knew there was no way I could leave them stranded. As I came to a stop across the highway from them, one of the women crossed the road to explain she was trying to get her passenger to a doctor and they had blown a tire and had no spare. Would we send help from town?

She wrote down her cell phone number and I assured her help would arrive shortly. We continued into town, judging that the truck stop at the main intersection as we entered George West would be the surest place to secure help. I pulled up to a bay where two mechanics were working on a vehicle, quickly explained the situation to them and asked for their assistance. They were willing to help but wanted assurance they would be paid, which I guaranteed for them. I inquired if they knew the man's name we had found on the dog's collar, but they had never heard of him.

Waving to Bonnie, I entered the adjacent cafe to secure a phonebook and hopefully find the address of Mac's owner. The name was not in the book. One of the mechanics had followed me in and approached a nearby table where two men and a young woman were eating. He asked the men if they knew the man I sought. One of the men's eyebrows rose in surprise as he looked over his fork in my direction. "My son's best friend," he said. "Why are you looking for Evan?" he asked. I explained the dog to him, and he shook his head in amazement.

It turned out that our new friend, Rusty Williams, owned the truck stop and cafe. He was also the county tax assessor and apparently knew everyone in a 50-mile radius of George West. Bonnie and I liked the man instantly and formed a friendship through our conversation. Rusty called his son and explained our need to speak to Evan, who called in within a few minutes.

Evan told me that he had been hunting on a ranch near ours over two weeks ago and lost the dog when he chased a hog through a game-proof fence. Evan had returned to the site each day after work to search for his dog, but after a week of fruitless effort, he gave him up as lost or dead. We left the dog with Rusty who assured us that he would soon be back where he belonged. He also assured us that the women we had stopped to help south of town would be fine, able to pay or not.

Evan called me back at home the next day. His thanks were profuse. He explained that the dog was an American Bulldog, not a Pit, which was a much more gentle breed. His four-year-old daughter had been overwhelmed with his return. So had the dog. Evan seemed to be a truly fine young man.

After our conversation, I fished the cell phone number of the two ladies with the flat tire from my pocket and was reassured to hear they had completed their journey and were safely back home in Bruni. They were surprised to hear from us, but very pleased for the chance to thank us again.

Bonnie and I shared a cup of coffee over the kitchen table at home and reflected on a very special trip. We had greatly enjoyed the ranch, saved a very special dog and ensured two stranded women could complete their trip safely. Unexpected outcomes. Had we not made the trip--which had been quite spur-of-the-moment and spontaneous on our part--things could have turned out very differently with a tragic outcome certain for our friend "Mac."

Do bad things happen to good people? Absolutely. However, when we give of our time and extend an effort, the result can be a happy ending.

The Intruder, Part Three, Requiem

2009-02-17T15:15:00.000-08:00

Vicente cupped the old porcelain mug of steaming coffee in gnarled fingers, lightly tracing the hairline fractures lacing the mug's surface. Warmth radiated outward, easing the arthritic ache in his knuckles.

Dawn's golden light played through the latticed foliage of mesquite trees in the yard, contrasting with the sharply defined shadows angling into the ground from the weathered pine boards and cedar posts of the corrals. Inside the house, soft footsteps slid across the hardwood floor as Vicente's niece set his breakfast plate before him. Refried beans, scrambled eggs and freshly baked tortillas brought a smile to his face.

The voice of his niece had an almost musical quality as she reminded him of the strange events of the previous evening. He tore a hot tortilla in two, pushing a mixture of eggs and beans into one folded half with the aid of the other. A sip of sweetened coffee aided in the chewing and swallowing of his first bite.

Outside, the smell of rain still dominated the coolness of morning. The hooves of lowing cattle made sucking sounds as they pulled free of mud on the way from their bedding ground near the house into the pasture to browse for morning grazing.

With an effort, Vicente's attention returned to the words flowing from his niece. Who had driven the strange truck past them into the driving rains so deep into the ranch in the dead of night? What had become of him, or them? Why had they not returned? His niece asked if she could she use Vicente's truck to follow the tracks into the ranch and see if help was needed. After some serious consideration, he reluctantly nodded to her. Whoever had passed was almost certainly in need of help.

Finishing his meal, Vicente admonished her to use extreme care with the truck. She was to use caution in the areas where water stood. If anything looked suspicious, she was to return for him immediately. Rhythmically tapping the table top with his forefinger, he went over the eccentricities of the old truck. Instructions on how to best start and operate the pickup were received by his niece with a serious, focused expression on her face. Though she had already learned these things by heart, she kept a respectful focus on the face of her uncle. When Vicente was satisfied, he pointed to the keys hanging on a peg just inside the door.

He had to smile, shaking his head as she bolted through the door and off the porch toward the truck. The screen door slammed loudly in her wake. His sister poured more coffee into his cup, then joined him at the table with her own. They heard the truck's engine cough to life.

Through a worried expression, his sister uttered her hope that the girl would be safe. "Con el favor de Dios," Vicente responded ('with the favor of God'). He stared through eyes clouded with cataracts at his sister and smiled, once again.

Meanwhile, back in the brush . . .

Dan awakened with a start. The closed windows of his pickup were heavily fogged with his breath and body heat. Covered in sweat, his shirt clung sullenly to him. Seeing that the sun was up, Dan quickly opened the door and stepped from the cramped cab of his vehicle. He found himself standing in a mixture of sludge and water some five to six inches deep. The air was fresh, and a gentle breeze stirred, cooling the shirt plastered to his back. Dan stretched and twisted to relieve cramped muscles confined to the cab overnight.

He squinted into the brightness of the early morning and immediately began to assess his situation. Wading to the rear of the truck, he dropped the tailgate and sifted through the materials inside. He settled on a set of small ramps used to lift the front end when changing the oil. Wedging them in tightly against the front tires, he slipped the truck in gear, placed a pipe wrench against the accelerator and ran to the rear of the truck to add his strength to the push forward. The wheels spun and the truck inched slowly forward about two feet before coming to a sudden stop. Walking around to the front of the truck, Dan saw that the ramps had sunk completely into the soft mud. He killed the engine and returned to the rear of the truck to lower the tailgate once again. It was difficult to drop, so Dan freed the side supports and lifted it from its hinges, tossing it behind him in frustration. He stacked his possessions neatly on slightly higher ground just off the sendero and some 30 yards behind the truck to keep them dry.

The voices, somewhat muted, still softly whispered instructions. Dan hoisted one of the rucksacks on his shoulder, picked up a rifle and moved back up the hill he had descended in the darkness. When he reached the crest he surveyed the view offered from a hunting stand that sat atop it. Noting the ranch house to the west, he pondered it. There seemed to be no activity there. He climbed back down the steps to the ground. Dan moved down the sendero so he would be less visible and sat down, unzipping his rucksack and retrieving a beer and a map from it. Draining the beer, he focused on the unfolded map before him. He soon formed a rough idea of his location and made the decision to head southwest. A road lay in that direction that would be impossible to miss. Mexico was still well within reach. The map went into his back pocket. He then stepped into the brush lining the sendero and set the rucksack behind a sage bush before returning to the pathway and making his way back to the truck.

The vehicle was hopelessly stuck. Dan checked to be sure he had removed all necessary supplies and then removed the license plates and a five-gallon can of gasoline from the bed of the truck. He doused the cab first, leaving both doors open, before soaking the engine. Tossing the nearly empty can back into the truck bed, he stepped away, struck a match and tossed it at the cab. He backed quickly away from the heat and smoke.

Vicente's niece came to an abrupt stop atop the hill. Her mouth opened in amazement as she looked down upon the flames and billowing cloud of black smoke erupting into the air above the truck. She noted the man standing beside it.

Motion tugged at the side of Dan's vision and he gazed quickly up the hill at the newly arrived truck. Grabbing the barrel, he pulled the rifle from his shoulder and began to bring it up into firing position.

Taking everything in, she slammed the truck into reverse and, almost immediately, backed out of his line of sight.

Dan cursed his slowness and listened to the muted sound of the engine fade rapidly into the distance. The huff and roar of the nearby flames had covered the sounds of her approach.

Moving quickly, Dan put some distance between himself and the burning vehicle and hid parts of his valuables in a couple of obscure locations. He returned to the truck and checked the progress of the consuming flames before hoisting a final rucksack onto his shoulders and heading southwest into the brush, moving at a measured pace.

Within minutes of her return to the old homestead, Vicente, his niece and sister were headed out of the ranch, onto the highway and north toward Tilden and the sheriff's office. Based on the information they related to the authorities, the sheriff gathered a posse and returned to the ranch to investigate.

Dan finally emerged from the brush on a highway some five miles southwest of the ranch and followed the pavement west. A sheriff's deputy spotted him walking along the shoulder and eased to a stop beside him. Dan produced the requested identification papers, which indicated he was in the U.S. Navy. Dan affirmed the deputy's guess that he was headed for the naval landing field a short distance down the highway. Dan provided a plausible story to the deputy, saying that he had been on leave, had mechanical problems and was trying to return to base before being listed A.W.O.L. Dan dropped his bag into the back seat and was given a ride to the base entrance by the deputy. Dan thanked the officer and waved as he pulled away.

The posse found no trace of anyone around the smoldering truck and began to expand the net of an organized search.

Some time later, word came from the naval landing field that an individual had taken control of the base at gunpoint. The gunman had secured all base personnel in a conference room and had attempted to disable all radios on the base. A pilot had slipped through a window and used a transmitter in a jeep to call for help before being captured and locked up with the other base personnel by the lone gunman.

The deputy who had given Dan a lift to the landing field responded to the call for help. Returning to the base and discovering the staff locked in a conference room, he was informed that the gunman had commandeered a dump truck. The deputy reasoned that he had headed toward Cotulla since he had not met him on his return trip to the base. The officer caught up with Dan near the Nueces River and captured him without incident. He no longer had any weapons or possessions on him, and none were ever recovered.

Dan chatted amicably with the deputy on the way back to the landing field. He was keenly interested in survival tactics and ways of living off the land in the area. The deputy explained that snakes were the best meat to eat at this time of the year due to problems related to various diseases flourishing in the heat of the summer. He also pointed out various types of plants, including cactus that were edible.

After returning to the base, Dan requested permission to use the men's room. While inside, he apparently took some sort of chemical or drug. Upon re-entering the room, Dan proceeded to dismantle that part of the base and the personnel along with it.

Desperate, coordinated efforts finally subdued him. Dan was securely restrained and later flown out, back east where he began undergoing psychiatric evaluations. It was documented that his condition was considered so delicate that he was restrained in a padded cell, and his hold on any semblance of sanity so fragile that he could not be questioned about the circumstances of his behavior.

Strange...

Driving back to the ranch, I reviewed the many unanswered questions about Dan:

Why had the Secret Service been involved?

Had this been an element in some sort of drug or smuggling operation that had gone awry?

Why had he questioned the deputy sheriff about survival in these harsh brushlands?

Was he really psychotic, or incredibly clever?

Had he left something behind for which he planned to someday return?

Since that time, we have found various other personal effects scattered around the ranch in Dan's wake, additional diving gear and a tattered Texas flag among them. Many questions remain about Dan that I am sure will never be answered.

We had always felt the ranch was such a secure haven. Living in today's world, I'd like to think that the violent history of the South Texas brush country is a thing of the past.

Still...

The Intruder, Part Two, Into Darkness

2009-01-29T15:23:00.000-08:00

A serious attempt had been made to get the truck back on solid ground. It had obviously been futile. I moved slowly forward, scouting the area carefully. Thinking back on the damaged gates behind me and the charred remains before me, I felt certain the vehicle had been stolen. The confusing array of footprints seemed to have no real pattern. There were several different men who had moved around making them. Spent 30 caliber rifle casings littered the area. Why the shooting? A search in an approximate 100-yard radius revealed little more. A couple of sets of tracks seemed to be moving generally south.

Where had these men gone? Had they backtracked to Vicente's house, taking the old rancher and his sister hostage, or worse? Had they circled back to the west to the hilltop headquarters of the neighboring Poenisch Ranch? What had brought this man Dan from Virginia to this lonely, remote ranch in the middle of nowhere? Who had come with him, and why?

The tailgate lying some 30 yards behind the truck had not been consumed in the flames and was a light blue in color. I picked it up and laid it in the bed of my pickup with the other personal effects. It was time to head to Tilden and the sheriff's office.

Driving back through the gates and leaving our family ranch behind, I passed Vicente's ancient family cemetery, then his weathered old ranch house and working pens. I barely touched the brakes as his house slipped by. If he and his sister had been taken, I would not help the situation by stopping at this point. Better to secure help.

Reaching the blacktop, I floored the accelerator on the old truck for the entire 26 miles into Tilden. At the courthouse, a cloud of caliche dust roiled over the truck as I came to a stop. Stepping out and slamming the door, I jogged up the steps and into the lobby. I crossed the hardwood floor and approached a young woman at a desk. It was just a short wait until a deputy sheriff arrived after being summoned by the dispatcher. He was tall and double jointed, and his runover cowboy boots settled into a cadence as he strode toward me.

"Problem?" he asked, offering his hand.

"Yep," I responded, taking it. "There's a burned out truck stranded on our ranch in the south end of the county."

A puzzled look turned quickly into a smile. "Out just past the old Hasette place?. . . We got him," he asserted, still smiling.

"Are Vicente and his sister all right?" I asked, liking him.

"Sure, the old man's fine. They're both fine," was the response.

I slid the duffel bag across the floor to him and indicated it might contain the personal effects of the man we were discussing. His eyebrows arched in surprise as he prodded it with a boot, then he lifted it onto a desk top and began to inspect the contents.

"It's him," he confirmed. "I'll need to call this in to the Secret Service. Where'd you find it?" he questioned.

"To the west, up the hill behind the truck," I said, puzzled as he picked up a phone and began to dial. "The Secret Service?" I pondered to myself.

"I thought we searched the area thoroughly," he muttered with a shake of his head. He finished his inventory report and wrote down some instructions before dropping the receiver back into its cradle.

"When did all this happen?" I asked.

"Sometime back in May," he responded.

"No way," I said. "These receipts in his bag place him only as far south as Louisiana on June 11th. That means he couldn't have made it down here before June 13th or 14th at the earliest!"

He let a lopsided grin escape and shoved his hat back on his head. "Could have been off a week or so on the date," he conceded. "Been a while back now, in any case."

"Tell me who he was and what happened," I urged. "Why weren't we called?"

He began to relate a strange tale of a man who had been originally from Portland, Oregon. Dan had joined the Navy and came to be stationed in Portsmith, Virginia, where he underwent training as a Navy SEAL. He became one of their best, specializing in covert high risk operations.

Over time, he began to ingest a variety of drugs. Becoming progressively more unstable mentally, he started to hear and respond to voices that existed only in his mind. The voices told him to head south to Mexico. There was no explanation of his purpose in doing this.

Winding his way across the southern states, he dropped down into Texas. Dan apparently became fearful of being apprehended. As he drove south through the night on highway 16 into a steady rain, he came upon the obscure road leading into our ranch.

He pulled over to the side of the pavement and stared into the darkness punctuated by rainfall, occasional lightning and the steady, slapping rhythm of his windshield wipers. He judged that he was now close enough to the Mexican border to reach it by cutting directly west and driving cross-country on ranch roads. It was a serious error in judgment--one that would cost him dearly.

Thus began his frenzied effort; crashing through locked gates and working his way ever deeper, westward into the desolate, sodden terrain. The collisions left bits and pieces of his vehicle along the way. A few miles into his push through the night, he passed the glow of kerosene lanterns in the windows of an old ranch house. He barely glanced toward the light, so intent was he on maintaining progress through water filled ruts and keeping his truck centered on the slick ruts defining the road. Mud sprayed into the air behind his spinning rear tires.

Vicente sat on the front porch in an ancient chair, canted back against the wall. He loved the sounds and smell of the rain. It was a rare blessing in this arid land. It brought life and sustenance to his parched pastures and cattle. It renewed hope. His sister and niece were in the house, so he called them to step out and see the crazy man driving deeper into the night over rain soaked roads. Who would be so unwise? With muttered expressions of surprise, they watched as the swaying red tail lights of the truck gradually fishtailed away into the darkness and rain. The sound of the racing engine blended and merged into the steady splatter of raindrops on the roof. Shaking his head and muttering in Spanish, concerned about damage to the roads, Vicente and the women re-entered the house. They turned off the lanterns as they prepared for, and slipped into their beds. Each drifted toward sleep, lungs caressed by the sweet coolness in the air and the fresh scent of rain.

When he finally moved out onto and across our ranch, Dan became engaged in a desperate search for a route that would allow him to continue his push west to the Rio Grande and refuge in Mexico. Frustration built within him as he worked his way around the pasture and came to the realization that the road west stopped here, on this ranch. There was no gate leading beyond our land.

Dan tried to double back toward the entrance behind him. He found himself sliding down a rocky hill toward a flowing creek that suddenly emerged from the darkness and rain. The truck slid into the water and promptly sank up to the frame in the silt. The fractured beams of his headlights tilted down at an angle into the mud and slowly moving water.

In spite of his efforts, the truck remained hopelessly stuck. A sense of rage grew. The voices harried him. The air was cool and damp. The rain eased as a knee-high blanket of thin mist settled in, clinging to the earth. Dan was forced to wait, seething helplessly, for the coming dawn. He sat, alone in the darkness. . .

watch for the conclusion in

The Intruder, Part Three, Requiem

The Intruder, Part One, The Odyssey

2009-01-23T09:40:00.000-08:00

Something caught the corner of my eye. Glancing to my right, I was surprised to see an olive canvas duffel bag. Astounded, I cautiously hefted the object and noted slight signs of insect activity beneath it before gently lowering it back into its original resting place.

I scanned the nearby drought stunted trees, then beyond to the horizon. I wondered where the person to whom this belonged might be? In my mind, nothing could have been more completely out of place.

After passing through eight gates after leaving Highway 16 between Freer and Tilden, Texas, finally, you were on the ranch. Three of those gates were always kept locked. I noted on this trip that all three had been damaged. The gravel and caliche roads in had been bladed and the shoulders graded, so I figured the gates had fallen victim to a careless equipment operator.

My purpose on this outing was to do a bit of scouting preceding an upcoming bird hunt. I wanted to make sure the bunkhouses and camp area were in good shape and ready for guests that would be coming in shortly for the annual event. Beyond that, I just loved being on the ranch. It is rugged, extremely remote, and the only material comforts are those you bring in with you. It is a great place to release distractions and re-focus on the basics.

This pasture in McMullen County has been in my wife Bonnie's family since her great-grandfather, a Confederate veteran, came to view it with his sons in a mule-drawn wagon back in 1912. The story is that he brought a bottle of whisky because the seller liked it and a revolver because Mexican revolutionaries, or bandits, like Pancho Villa were still making excursions into "The Wild Horse Desert" or "The Nueces Strip" as the area was known. The plan was to create a town and sell off lots when the railroad came through. That never happened, but the ranch has remained in the family some 96 years now. It is still untamed, remote and beautiful country.

The camphouses seemed to be in good enough shape after months of neglect. No sign existed that anyone had tampered with them. However, something had me feeling vaguely uneasy. The dried hide from a freshly skinned javelina had been hung like a wet towel from a nail near the corner of one of the bunkhouses. It had dried and stiffened in the arid heat. Where had it come from?

Leaving the camp behind, I drove deeper into the ranch. Summer rains had been unusually bountiful and the brush was lush. The two tanks in the center of the pasture stood brim-full of water, shimmering in the afternoon sunlight. The wings of a grey heron billowed outward and lifted it gracefully into the heat of a clear blue sky. I moved on along the main ruts of the sendero leading to the northwest corner of the land.

Passing the stand at the "Big Tree" I saw that it had been reduced to a pile of rubble. It was strange that it had fallen to the southeast, as prevailing winds come from the opposite direction this time of the year.

I noticed that corn had been planted in a neighboring field just beyond our land. It would provide a source of food for birds and wildlife in the fall and winter to come. The crop stand was just right. Plentiful enough for feed, yet too sparse to combine.

Rounding the northwest corner of the ranch, I eased up the incline of the "Rocky Hill" to hunt for arrowheads. Stopping in what had proven to be a productive sendero, or right of way, I had stepped from my pickup truck into the stifling afternoon heat to search for points when I found the duffel bag.

Frowning, I set the bag on my tailgate and leaned over to unzip and then study its contents. It contained a puzzling array of items; two dark blue jump suits, a wooden box holding 15 to 20 heavy metal rock eight-track cassette tapes, about a six-week supply of beef jerky, vitamin supplements, a coil of hemp cord, black military laceup boots, a small survival flashlight, face mask and snorkel with diving instructions, a Pentax 35mm camera with four exposures taken, various items of underwear, two unopened cans of Bud Light beer and what appeared to be a backgammon set.

I cautiously pried open the lid of the backgammon set. A handful of papers were snatched up and strewn across the sendero in a brisk southeasterly breeze. The afternoon heat was oppressive as I quickly chased them down. It surprised me to see that in addition to gasoline sales receipts, two of the papers were traffic citations.

The first name of the individual cited was Dan. He had originally been from Portland, Oregon, but had been cited twice for reckless driving in Portsmouth, Virginia. This, within a span of eighteen minutes. The series of events had begun on June 8, and gasoline receipts had traced his progress from Virginia to Shreveport, Louisiana, by June 11th.

How had his possessions come here, to a remote, brush-covered rock hill on a ranch in the middle of nowhere? Who and where was this man, Dan? Was this a crime that had gone wrong? Was it still unfolding? Had there been a kidnapping or even worse, a murder? Were drugs involved? Had he parachuted in to this spot? I felt the hair rise on the nape of my neck as I tossed the bag and its contents into the bed of my truck before crawling back into the cab.

I started the engine, shoved a sweat stained felt hat back on my head and jerked the truck into gear. I pulled slowly forward toward the crest of the hill and another sendero that bisected it, running east and west. As I rolled onto this set of ruts, I noted that some 350 yards distant, down and away to the east, at the base of the hill rested what remained of another pickup truck. Its hood was up and both doors were swinging open. I pulled a set of binoculars into focus and realized that flames had consumed the vehicle entirely. Who or what lay below me in that charred wreckage?

Thinking the better of driving directly to the site, I decided that it might prove an advantage to keep myself between what lay below and the only gate allowing access to the ranch. I circled back around and approached the ruined truck from the opposite direction, hoping there was not a body and knowing that the sheriff's department would need the numbers off the license plates to identify the vehicle.

My truck eased to a stop some fifty yards from the ruins. The flames had been so intense that the windshield had melted out of its frame. There appeared to be no license plates on the vehicle. A variety of tools had been scattered in and around the truck. It seemed to be resting on its frame. Well defined footprints of varying sizes dotted the muddy creekbed.

Having secured a pistol, I slowly approached the burned out truck with knuckles bordering on becoming white knots of tension . . . (to be continued)

Paradise Lost

2008-12-31T16:22:00.001-08:00

Richard and I were crawling along, inch by inch. Our hands and knees stirred up small puffs of fine dust that hovered in the stillness as we trailed the wounded buck. We blinked sweat from our eyes and felt it mix with dry, alkaline soil to paste our shirts, clammy and pungent, to the skin of our backs. Typical of mid-November weather in the Brush Country of deep South Texas, it could be hot as the gates to Hades one minute and freezing under the grip of a howling blue norther the next.

Flies worked at us with infinite patience, seeming to know that we were unable to swat them for fear of spooking the deer to whose spoor we clung so desperately. The undergrowth was thick, with rolling swells of hills covered in granheno, coyotillo, blackbrush, huisache and mesquite. Huge towering flats of prickly pear liberally covered the countryside. The cactus would rise six to eight feet in height, forming impenetrable barriers which one simply had to go around.

Blood sign became less frequent as the once-steady stream had tapered off to an occasional drop or a rare smear on a branch of the heavy brush. We were no longer able to stand, as thorn shrouded boughs bore down heavily on us from above. The path was difficult for an animal on all fours and impassable for an upright man. Wounded bucks usually head for the thickest, heaviest cover they can find, and this one was no exception.

Two blue quail darted across the path directly in front of us, disappearing into the maze of dried grass and brush. The air filled with the sound of beating wings as the rest of the covey flushed around us. I slowly released the breath that had caught in my throat.

Richard had assured me that this had been a tremendous buck. It had moved by so quickly and had been so big that he felt compelled to take a shot, rushed though it was. He had been certain of "hitting him hard," and knowing Richard I was sure it was so. He had seen many good bucks, and as he sat in the sendero describing this one with "horns everywhere," it became obvious that we would be tracking a very special animal.

At this point in our lives Richard Smith and I were 17 years of age. Our families had been close friends as far back as our memories reached. We had grown up together in the Brush Country of southern Jim Wells County in Texas. Our two families as well as four others now shared this hunting lease which sprawled over the boundaries of Webb and Zapata counties, reaching to the Mexican border.

Deer were not as numerous here as in some other areas of the state, but they were very heavy horned and large bodied. The ranch had a large javelina population along with a healthy sprinkling of bobcats and coyotes. At one point, we even had a pair of Mexican or mountain lions working the area. I became obsessed with getting a crack at one, but that notion dissolved when one screamed near where I was hunting.
I could only describe it as the cry of a woman terrified of losing her immortal soul. My own hide became a major concern at that point, and I immediately gave up all thoughts of stalking one of the big cats.

As boys, we all loved the joy to be experienced in hunting and fishing. When we were not actually involved in one of these pastimes, plans were being made for the next outing. Characters like Richard, Todo, Wayne, Charly, Clyde, Forrest, Rocky and others were always up to something. For now, it was just Richard and me.

Like exploding bellows in an old blacksmith's shop, a roar of sound erupted around and over us! The hair on the back of my neck went straight up. About 20 feet up the trail, a huge diamondback reared its ugly, angular head. It issued an enraged challenge to our right to share the same ground. The snake was big--and mad. Its slowly moving head--the size of a man's fist--and deadly myopic stare froze us completely. Its tongue flicked rapidly in and out of its venomous mouth. Its rattles were a shadowed blur of motion. The sharp, diamond etched pattern appeared on its skin as a greenish grey warning that was both brutal and direct.

I quickly backed into Richard's lap, and the two of us retreated together from that point. The snake crept slightly forward before recoiling and resuming its coil and ugly display of temper. Wits were slow to return, so great were our shock and the taste of fear in our mouths. I hastily pulled a 22-caliber pistol from the holster on my belt. I spewed hollow points in his direction until the eleven-shot clip was empty. The first two or three rounds ended the threat. The rest exorcised the surprise and fear he created in us. It had seventeen rattles to the point where they were worn or broken off.

The narrow path ahead grew more difficult, and we finally lost all sign of the buck's passing. Backtrailing and careful scanning bore no fruit, and with great regret, we gave him up for lost. Only someone who has endured this experience can know what a truly sad feeling this is. Losing an animal under such circumstances places a tragic sense of loss and waste in the heart of any hunter.

We finally broke free of heavy underbrush, emerging into the open sendero where Dad's old Ford pickup was parked. Rifles were unloaded, and we began the slow drive over swells, down ravines with a scramble back up the steep side and around rolling hills as we moved back toward camp. The various parts of that old truck groaned, cracked and squeaked every inch of the way.

Pulling through the main gate, we passed the ancient set of sun-bleached, stacked post working pens flanked by a squawking windmill pouring clear, sweet water into an aged concrete cistern. The cloud of dust churned up by our wheels and billowing into the air behind us caught up and rolled over us as we braked to a stop, adding to the already impressive layer of dirt coating us and the vehicle. We stepped out of and around the truck, slapping dust from ourselves and each other as we moved toward the house.

The smell of frying meat hung in the air just outside the house. Grinning, we elbowed each other through the closest of the five doors that granted access to the camp house. Richard's mother, Faye, shouted a greeting as we made our way to the stove top. We each snagged a plate from the stack on the corner of the dining table and heaped it with pinto beans, camp fried potatoes and deep fried venison backstrap. A generous blanket of mother Faye's thick, rich cream gravy covered everything on both plates. Dessert was Teresa Kelso's chocolate cake--she always seemed to have one in camp.

Dad asked what had kept us so long, and we related the morning's events. We ended the storytelling by dropping the rattles from the snake on the kitchen table. This act would have seen me banished from the dining room at home, but was perfectly natural here. Why couldn't we really live in hunting camp...?

Dad, T.C."Sleepy" Fine, Tommy Kelso and Richard's father "Smitty" were well into their next game of 42 as we finished lunch. I noticed Alston Brown with his chair leaned back into the wall in a corner. He was fast asleep with his characteristic "chaw" of tocacco in his cheek. Richard and I slipped out into the early afternoon heat, leaving the sounds of laughter and the clatter of dominoes behind us.

Clear, cool water from the concrete cistern by the stacked pens washed away the morning's grime and left us fresh and invigorated. We washed and wrung out our shirts, then draped them over the side of the old corrals to dry in the warmth of the mid-day breeze. We stretched out in the shade of a big mesquite and watched a solitary buzzard ride the updrafts with no visible effort of any kind. How the heck could it do that? Those fresh shirts were a luxury after the sun had dried us. A thin line of blue-grey clouds could be seen far away in the distant north. Richard looked at me with arched eyebrows at the sight.

As we re-entered the cabin, Alston's chair was still canted back firmly against the wall. We had been outside for at least 45 minutes, but Alston was still quite soundly asleep. The 42 game was in fill swing. I don't recall ever seeing Alston without a chew of tobacco, and this was no exception. Taking his arm and shaking it gently, I wondered if he needed to spit. His eyes rolled slowly into focus, recognition dawned and panic ensued as he bolted for the closest of the doors!

Winds from the southeast kicked up great clouds of dust as we moved into the yard a bit later to load up for the afternoon hunt. Sand devils, or whirlwinds, moved at random intervals across the range below camp. This was going to be an interesting afternoon. Vehicles coughed to life, and we all moved out toward our chosen locations.

A short time later, I backed into the secure cover of a large outgrowth of cactus near a fence row. A very active game trail passed under the fence some 150 yards distant. My rifle stock was wedged into the fork of a mesquite limb at rest, should the need for a shot arise. The heat persisted, and the wind blew, twisting the brush into weird, unnatural contortions in its fury. Unexpectedly, the wind laid just before dusk. An eerie setting sun bathed the world in a strange, golden light. Everything around me took on an odd, luminescent hue. Now, in the stillness, maybe something would move in the few fleeting moments of remaining daylight.

I had always been frustrated by evening hunts. They end in their own time, not one of my choosing. As I eased back into the pickup, I reflected on the fact that wildlife does not like high winds. Their senses are confused by it, and they become reluctant to move about. My mind wandered back to the buzzard riding gentle updrafts earlier in the afternoon. What had become of him? My best bet would have been a slow, steady stalk into the wind, hoping to find an old buck bedded down and waiting for things to ease up a bit. The whipping brush in that wind would have masked my movement, providing a much better chance of getting in close enough for a shot. However, the rattlesnake earlier in the day made me hesitant to follow that strategy in this heat. Snakes were numerous and aggressive in this country. I wasn't unduly afraid of them, but they did have my respect.

At dark, Dad and I picked up Richard and Smitty, then coasted to a stop in front of the camp house under a clear, beautiful South Texas sky smeared with glistening stars. That distant ridge of clouds was much closer now, casting an ominous black pall over a full quarter of the glorious evening sky.

After supper we sprawled on our bunks, each relating their take on the day's events. Randy Kelso had taken a fine 11-point buck at daybreak. Richard still mourned the loss of his. We were all regretting that loss when a howling norther slammed into the cabin. A couple of doors were thrown shut when the first gusts struck. The wind carried grains of sand and other debris with it as it slashed through the room. The grainy wind stung our eyes and rasped against our skin as we rushed to secure other openings from its onslaught. The full force of its fury tore at the little house through much of the evening.

Particles of sand and grit continued to slip through cracks in the walls, mingling with the rich smell of burning mesquite smoke curling from the fireplace, which drew poorly, if at all. A bone chilling cold fought to penetrate our small refuge of warm, dancing flames fed by logs tossed into the fireplace over the course of the night.

From beneath a pile of quilts, I remember watching Sleepy staring into the flames from a chair placed carefully before the open hearth. The play of light danced on his face as he turned to smile at me. How had he known I was watching? Passing years had etched deep lines in his face that I had never really noticed before. As Chief of Police back home I knew he dealt with things I could only imagine. He had lost a daughter. "Bill," he said, "sometimes we are overly impressed with our own importance. The way we value things and ourselves can be so strange. When we experience the full force of an act of nature, we realize just how insignificant we really are. We can be so childish!" His eyes turned back to the flames. "Our Creator blessed us with life. He also gave us a sense of awareness... and a will. That's a blessing and a curse. It can get away from us sometimes. A man can be arrogant. He decides to bend nature and others to his will. That's how things good in man and nature get destroyed, get lost. Sometimes, forever."

He had gone outside only minutes earlier. I didn't know what time it was, only that everyone else seemed to be asleep. He smiled through a kind of sadness in his eyes. "It's faired off," he said. "Should be a fine hunt in the morning." He tousled my hair, then returned to his chair.

I was never sure what had stirred those thoughts in him. I just knew that as I watched him from beneath those quilts, when I finally drifted off to sleep, nothing truly existed then but me, and him and the wind...

A Magnificent Obsession

2008-11-26T15:16:00.000-08:00

When you're 17, nothing is impossible. In Todo's mind, this was a firmly fixed fact. To him, it didn't seem at all outlandish to kill a javelina with only his hunting knife. We had discussed the prospect several times. I enjoyed playing Devil's advocate and describing, in graphic detail, the horrible possibilities that might be tied to the act. However, he stoutly maintained that the attempt was not only possible, but success was probable, if the approach and frame of mind were correctly coordinated. Todo Myane was my best friend and I loved him like a brother. He had the gift of being able to convince many of us that most anything was possible, although in this case I remained very skeptical of his theory.

We heatedly debated differing viewpoints as we rolled along the highway in his father's old faded green Chevrolet pickup truck. Joining in the discussion were two other friends, Paul Visel and Robert Garcia. The truck was moving northwest, away from the small South Texas town of Premont in the direction of the Hill Country and Mr. Myane's hunting lease near Uvalde.

Todo was, and remains, one of those individuals who finds it impossible to talk without using his hands. The truck would lurch to the left or right from time to time as he reinforced a particular point. As teenage boys, we had no real cares and found the ride and rollicking arguments great fun.

Embracing our impending manhood, Paul and I were chewing "Red Man" tobacco and gave every appearance of relishing the activity. Robert had never tried to chew, but found the opportunity and encouragement irresistible. He scooped a healthy knot from the offered pouch and worked the wad into his cheek with minimal skepticism. Things started out well enough, but in due course he had to spit. His eyes reflected desperation as he had no cup like Paul and I.

With a broad smile, I advised he use the passenger window, as he was riding shotgun. He stuck his head out to release the accumulation of juice. To our combined amazement, he spat directly into the wind! Needless to say, his problems had only begun. Robert immediately got horribly ill. I feel reasonably sure that he has not touched chewing tobacco to this day. We helped Robert off his knees from the shoulder of the road after a brief, but badly needed stop.

Later, his face still in the grip of a deathly pallor, Robert stepped from the truck to unlock the gate leading into the ranch. Our good natured ribbing did nothing to steady his wobbly legs or improve his disposition. It seemed he was going to hold a grudge awhile. We rolled to a stop in front of the camp house and hurriedly unpacked in the golden light of late afternoon.

At this time we made a grim discovery. None of us had brought any food! There was no meat, salt, potatoes, beans, sugar or coffee. Nothing. No supplies had been left in the house either. We grabbed rifles and rushed into the rapidly approaching dusk in hopes of getting something to eat . . . and we did.

A jackrabbit and a javelina.

Under a burgundy sky, fading into blackness, we pulled together the makings of a good campfire. Soon, javelina and jackrabbit were roasting over the flames on a sheet of tin. The results remain firmly fixed in my mind as the absolute worst meal I have ever endured in my life. Juices from the javelina ruined the rabbit, which was not fit for human consumption in the first place. Truly, it was a "just right" meal. If it had been any worse, we couldn'ta et it! Had it been any better, wed'a feed it to the dogs! Robert grinned at our discomfort as he still wasn't hungry anyway.

Our first night in camp was punctuated by a blend of growling stomachs and fitful snores.

As day broke, we stretched, stomped into our boots, then rode on into town for a few badly needed supplies. Our quality of life improved dramatically. Rich, strong black coffee with sugar! Bacon and eggs! Buttered toast! Life was good! The rest of the day was spent in a combination of hunting and exploring an interesting cave Todo knew of. He had stumbled onto its entrance on the side of a remote brushy hill.

The mouth was roughly four feet across and dropped away into a hole going down into the dark earth some 15 feet. We laid a cedar fence post over the opening and slid down a lariat to gain access, stirring up a colony of bats in the process. Guano was about a foot deep, and the array of stalagmites and stalactites was extremely beautiful. We spent several hours exploring the wonders held secret within the side of that hill.

After supper, we shook out blankets and stretched out on our backs, staring out into the matchless beauty of the Texas Hill Country night sky. We talked of the things men/boys do and kept a rough tally of the occasional falling star. Finally, clothes smelling of sweat and rich wood smoke, we rolled into our blankets and beside the embers of a fine campfire gave ourselves over to the embrace of a deep and dreamless sleep. The last thing I remembered hearing was Todo muttering that he would, at some point, kill that javelina with no more than a knife...

The searing hiss of bacon in a skillet--its unique aroma drifting gently on the morning breeze pulled me back from the other world of sleep. My eyes opened to the soft light of pre-dawn. I kicked out of my blankets and eased over to the freshly fed fire where Todo hovered over an old cast iron skillet of frying bacon. His face glowed red as he took a pull on his Travis Club cigar, a habit he retains to this day. He smiled that lop-sided, irresistible grin of his and said, "Bill, today I'm going to get that hog!" Our eyes were pulled to the amber glow of the eastern sky. I smiled at him and said, "We'll see who gets who."

He cracked eggs over the bacon and stirred them thoughtfully as I poured coffee. Paul and Robert were soon with us beside the fire, enjoying breakfast.

We had a brief morning hunt and returned to break camp for the return trip home. Todo had not gotten his hog. He seemed genuinely perplexed as we loaded our gear into the bed of the truck. "Bill, I just knew that this was the day..." he muttered.

"It ain't over yet," I responded.

The last thing loaded was Mr. Myane's oak water barrel. He took great pride in it and had asked that we bring it home rather than leaving it at the camp to dry out and possibly collapse since deer season was now over and the camp would not be used for several months. We piled into the truck and gripped the dashboard as it wound its way over gravel ruts, churning along toward the distant gate and highway.

Todo's thick black eyebrows would arch, then furrow as he repeated, "I can't understand it," he mused. "I was so sure! Bill, you know how sometimes a feeling is so strong, it's telling you ahead something's gonna happen. I was so sure...," he repeated again, gazing into the distance.

About half an hour later we came to the Frio River and decided to pull over for a quick bath. We sought the cover of a wooded bend in the rushing stream. This saved any innocent passerby the unwelcome shock of coming upon us frolicking in the river wearing nothing but our hats and grins.

Soon, we were underway again, our spirits lifted after the refreshing swim. Todo seemed more his old self again as the miles flew by.

That is, until Paul said, "Todo, there's a pack!"

Todo immediately slammed the brake pedal to the floor, leaving twin strips of black skid marks as the truck fishtailed to a stop on the shoulder of the road.

Todo kicked open the driver's door, took a fix on the pack as he pumped his arms and legs in a wild sprint to the fence. He palmed the top of a cedar post and vaulted over the top of the wire. The rest of us assumed positions in the back if the cab along the headache rack for a better view and shouted encouragement.

"Further to your right," Paul yelled. Todo turned, stalking the perimeter of the small oak mott, jerking his well honed knife from its sheath. He worked his way around scrub oaks and cedar outgrowths in pursuit of the animals. We watched with glee and shouted encouragement until, finally, his shoulders seemed to slump and he dejectedly turned back toward the truck. He began to plow through the knee-deep grass and had only taken a few steps when Robert cupped a hand to his mouth and shouted, "Todo, to your left...in the cedar bush!"

Todo spun around, eased over toward the bush and peered into the depths of its shadows. His eyebrows knitted into a frown. He slowly folded into a crouch, then dove right into the center of that cedar bush! Immediately, screams for help filled the air. "My God," he shouted! "Somebody help meeee!" he bellowed with more than a touch of shrillness in his voice.

We jumped from the truck bed and flew at the fence. Robert had the hardest time as he was rather portly at that time in his life. We all ran, side by side to the aid of our companion. I glanced over at Robert and saw his clothes in tatters. Blood flowed from a number of wounds inflicted as he dove through the barbed wire. He looked like he had been pulled through a cheese grater, but he never missed a step.

We slowed and cautiously approached the wildly gyrating cedar. Just beyond it, stood an outraged sow. Every coarse, hairlike spine on her body stood upright. Her substantial ivory tusks were clacking together fiercely and sounded like small limbs cracking under stress. Her beady eyes radiated pure hatred. She looked like a huge porcupine with a mouth full of razor sharp tusks! A half grown piglet stood beside her squealing hysterically, adding to the noise and confusion. This mother was ready to charge the cedar bush.

In the middle of that bush hunched Todo, pleading for help. His hands were firmly locked behind the ears of a second half grown pig. It was pinned to the ground between his knees. The knife lay forgotten on the ground at his side. The mother snorted, glared balefully at us, then broke and ran as we closed on the scene. Through huge eyes, Todo looked over his shoulder at me. "Bill, take it!" he demanded over the furious thrashing and snapping teeth of the creature beneath him.

"Pard, this has always been your quest, not mine," I retorted. "Want you to enjoy the full benefit of the experience," I added.

Todo's sense of humor seemed to be getting a little strained.

"The #@*&$^% thing will cut me to shreds!" he groaned.

"Please, guys. Get me something to put it in," he spat through clenched teeth.

Robert rolled his eyes and bolted back toward the truck. Paul and I watched as he again dove through the fence, inflicting more damage to himself.

Todo was in no mood for teasing, but this was just too good an opportunity to pass up. "Compadre, could I hand you your knife?" I offered. His eyes blazed, then gleamed with relief as Robert made his way back with a blanket.

To my horror, I recognized my treasured wool blanket. This stinking javelina would ruin it! There was no time, however, to debate the issue. The danger to Todo was too real.

We worked the blanket into place, then lifted the struggling bundle in its makeshift sack. Todo's relief was obvious and immediate. We laughed and pounded his back as we moved back to the truck, the squealing, squirming captive held at a very respectful distance.

Todo worried that we should not keep the pig. "Let's let it go, guys," he plead. "It'll be nothing but trouble." Todo had been involved in a minor misunderstanding with our local game warden and his dad a few weeks earlier and had found religion as far as state game laws were concerned. He just wasn't sure if we should keep the pig.

The issue was faced and addressed as we always did on any point of disagreement. We promptly took a vote. Three to one. We kept the hog.

Mr. Myane's water barrel was the only obvious means of containment for our new friend. Over Todo's objections, we dropped the nasty tempered little bugger through the lid into his small temporary prison. Though we hoped to tame him, his disposition seemed to get worse by the minute. We were soon on the road again.

The truck was low on gas as we pulled into the town of Benavides, and a stop was called for. As we climed from our seats and stretched, an old Mexican man approached to pump the gas. The scent of javelina hung over the bed of the truck as he slipped the gas nozzle into place. He peered into the bed of the truck, searching for the source of the odor. None was apparent, so he leaned against the side of the truck and hummed contentedly as he continued to pump the gas.

"WAANNKKK", came the sound from within the barrel. The old man's stooped shoulders came erect and he lifted his head, now fully alert.

"Que dice?" he asked. "Javelina?" he questioned.

"Si," I answered. "It is."

"Can I see heem?" he asked in his musical accent.

"Si, senior," I responded and nodded toward the barrel. With stiff joints, he shuffled over to the tailgate, hooked his ancient cane on its lip and gripping the top with gnarled leathery hands, pulled himself slowly upward toward the rim of the oaken barrel.

"WAANNKKK" came the soft sound from within the barrel once more.

With a smile on his face, he lifted the hinged lid and peered into the shadowed depths of the barrel. His smile turned into a look of shocked horror as he was greeted by a snarling mass of razor sharp tusks lurching desperately upward toward his face.

"Madre!" he exclaimed, falling backward off the rear bumper and landing with a sickening thud on the concrete beneath the truck.

He was up like a cricket, bouncing on his toes and gesturing with his cane excitedly. I had been sure that he had broken every bone in his body.

"Que bueno!" he laughed. "Will you sell heem?" he queried. "Cuantos?" he asked.

"He's not for sale," we insisted.

"What a fine leetle peeg," the old man mused.

Laughing, we bade him farewell. Todo still had not killed a javelina with a knife, but all in all, it had not been such a bad weekend...

*Postscript*
I am often asked, after relating this story, what ever happened to the javelina? Well, he was just too large to ever truly tame. He would tolerate humans to a point. However, he was completely unpredictable and would turn on a person in a second. A few weeks after arriving on our farm, he escaped.

A neighboring rancher, Leamon Jones, saw him in his pasture and walked over to pick him up and return him to me. He nearly lost an arm. Showing a torn sleeve and a gashed forearm to Dad and me, he gestured in the general direction the animal had headed. Gazing into the distance, I decided it best to leave well enough alone. He was allowed to return to the wild.

To my knowledge, Todo never has killed a javelina with a knife, nor, after that episode expressed any further inclination to do so.

The Fish Camp

2008-11-11T11:44:00.000-08:00

My world was a suffusive, murky grey. I dared not breathe in the sullen stillness that surrounded me. My body floated effortlessly, completely submerged in the waters of Mathis Lake. I was held in place by several hooks on the trot line we had just been running and re-baiting. These malevolent hooks now pierced my jeans, shirt and the middle knuckle of my left hand. I was held quietly in place, unable to lunge toward the surface and the air that my lungs were desperately, silently screaming for. A hand descended and groped at my face from above. It gripped my hair and pulled me swiftly toward the surface. Through blinking eyes blurred from rivulets of water, the smiling face of my godfather materialized slowly. I inhaled a huge gulp of air deeply into my lungs. His face vanished as I plunged beneath the surface once again.

The morning had been a mirror image of many others as Dad, Sleepy and I shot across the silty water of Lagarto Creek to gather fish and re-bait our lines. The twenty-five horsepower Evinrude left a small rooster tail of a wake with our passing. The surface reflected fragmented morning sunlight appearing as countless golden coins dancing over the distance to the horizon. I smiled in contentment. Dad loved fishing, and I had grown very fond of it. Truth be told, I came to love the trips flying over the surface of the water more than the fishing itself. For me, the journey surpassed the destination.

A new dam had raised the level of the lake significantly, and huge, silent groves of live oak trees had been partially submerged as a result. Their slow death had created silent, stark forests through which our baited lines now wound. The barren branches had become home to a variety of nesting water fowl. Turtles sunned on the limbs slicing through the surface of the water. Snakes drowsed on the upper reaches as well. I had heard a story of a water moccasin dropping from a high branch into a boat driven by my uncle Whitey about dusk one fine summer day. Whitey dove into the water straight away, allowing that if that viper could steer the boat, he was welcome to it!

I had draped myself over the closed bow of the boat. Tepid water and moss dripped through my fingers as I hauled on the main line, dragging the boat slowly along. The wind had risen strongly out of the southeast, creating great rolling swells through which our boat rose and fell. The strain of holding the mainline had become tedious, so my toes were hooked over the starboard side of the bow to help my arms and shoulders pull against the strain the line exerted.

Sleepy was behind me and Dad was aft, each of them threading chunks of venison liver onto the sharp stainless steel hooks as we worked our way along. Dad was a big believer in venison liver, so we always saved it from the preceding winter hunting season. The catfish seemed to love it. They would congregate around the snags and stumps, and when conditions were right, we caught them in great quantities.

This being our first run since the previous weekend, there were no fish on the hooks. We rubbed away the accumulated muck to clean the lines and hooks as we baited them out, hoping for a good fish fry for supper.

Blue cats were the favorites, though yellows were also good eating. Mud or channel cats were the least desirable as they were mostly head, and developed a somewhat gristly texture as they grew larger. This did not complement the slightly muddy flavor that their meat always hinted of. Two- to five-pounders were the perfect size for frying, though we were always excited at the prospect of a larger fish to show off or brag over.

The morning grew quickly hotter and my attention started to wander as sweat dripped from my nose. Monotony had set in. I stared blankly at the reflected sunlight shimmering in the rippling surface of the water. The large swells rolled and the wind continued to push against us.

That was when Sleepy stood up in the boat.

His unexpected release of the line combined with the popping force of the southeast wind taking in slack with a fresh shove against the hull caused the bow to tilt. I felt myself sliding off into the water.

My instinct was to hold rather than release the main line. I did just that. In and under I went.

Now I found myself ensnared in a mass of lines and hooks. The one embedded in my knuckle made me extremely cautious about any sudden lunge back to the surface. Others had bitten into the fabric of my clothing, and I had no desire to redouble a problem that already seemed fairly significant.

Why had Sleepy let me go? Why didn't he pull me back up and into the boat? It had been only a few seconds, but it seemed an eternity and my lungs screamed for air. Again, I felt his fingers grasp my hair.

Water streamed from me as Sleepy hauled me up and over the side of the boat. I coughed and sputtered as various hooks were removed from my shirt and jeans. Deep breaths of clean, sweet air pumped life and energy back into my body. Looking down, I stared at the single hook embedded in my knuckle, then grasped it, tearing it free of my flesh.

It was not the smartest move I ever made. My head swam and my stomach knotted in nausea as blood poured from the torn flesh. Above all, I had to bear up in front of Sleepy and Dad. I looked accusingly at Sleepy and demanded to know why he had released me before pulling me back on board. "Was afraid my cigarettes would get wet," he replied. His laughter was nervous and infectious. I realized that he had also been caught by surprise, off balance and knowing that two of us treading water while entangled in trot lines would have only compounded the problem.

"You OK?" Dad asked.

"Yessir," I replied, trailing my injured hand over the side. I watched blood from the ragged wound drift away in the currents.

It took a few minutes for my head to quit swimming. Though forced at first, good humor soon relieved the tension of the situation. Dad's cloudy blue eyes focused on me, concern still showing in them. "Sure you're all right, son?" he asked.

"Yessir, I'm fine," I smiled.

"Then let's finish getting baited out," he replied.

By the time we worked through to the last of the hooks on our three trot lines, fish were already set on hooks that had been baited earlier. We made several passes up and down the lines, bringing in a fine catch that assured supper would be something special.

Easing back into the calm waters of our boat slip, we dragged the heavy stringer off the boat and into a wheelbarrow to ferry back to the fish camp to be cleaned. It was a really good feeling. I shucked the fish free of the stringer and lifted the slick, struggling body of a nice blue onto the cleaning table behind the boat shed in the back yard near the rear of the cabin. I remember looking up through the swaying limbs of the huge hackberry trees towering over our heads. The beams of the late afternoon sun sprayed through the shifting openings. The yard was an amazing play of amber and shadow as we cleaned those fish, sharing laughter.

Dad looked at my swollen finger and suggested I go in and get it cleaned up and wrapped. On the way in I noticed that I was reeking of muddy, pungent water. Stepping into the shower, I took one last deep, grateful breath before washing it away. Mother and Sleepy's wife, Phyllis took on over me shamelessly. A shower and clean, dry clothes had pretty well revived me.

That evening as I watched the grown-ups play dominoes in the cabin, there was an abundance of laughter. The smell of fresh fried catfish and cornbread floated in the air. I was grateful for that wonderful meal, the comfort of the cabin and the feeling of love and kinship we all enjoyed. As I turned, chewing a mouthful of fish, I gazed at my sister, Charlotte. She grinned, lowered her gaze and quickly turned away. After all, I was a major source of irritation in her life, but that was an older brother's job. We both had an image to maintain. I grinned at her and now admitted to myself and no one else that I loved her. After all, even that confession would not change the fact that she could be a real pain in the neck. The years have seen us drift apart, but the clarity of that special time and place still shines in my mind.

Staring at the wall over the smiling face of my father, I read, once again, a faded verse inscribed on an old plaque...

'WISHING WHILE FISHING'
Sitting still and wishing
Makes no person great.
The good Lord sends the fishing-
But you must dig the bait!

That's a wealth of wisdom about living. What a grand gift life is; even more grand is the real living of it. I dozed off that marvelous night smiling and wondering if the fish would be biting tomorrow...

Old Reb...

2008-10-21T13:26:00.000-07:00

Bird dogs and wing shooting were always major elements in my youth. Quail provided the opportunity to pursue a pair of fine, matched dogs across pastures knee deep in dry, crackling grass layered in shimmering, delicate frost. In golden early morning sunlight, the dogs would work back and forth, in and out. One would suddenly freeze, muscles quivering on a point. The other would notice, and swap ends in a parody to imitate and honor the discovery of its companion. The dogs would leave an erratic wake in the frosted grass. On point, their heaving lungs sent roiling clouds of steamy vapor into the stillness of the brittle winter air.

Easing up to dogs on point was a nerve-wracking experience. I was fascinated by the delicate tendrils of wispy vapor rising from heat generated by their bodies. It formed a soft halo around them, like a ghostly shroud. Sights like these would always distract me slightly as the exploding sound of rapidly beating wings would scare a year's life out of me.

Dad always admonished me not to shoot at the entire covey at once. That was a natural reaction that guaranteed frustration and failure. The reliable tactic was to pick out a single bird and give it your full attention. The dogs would bound after and retrieve any downed birds, then begin to work the singles and doubles from the now scattered covey. Dad would never allow an entire covey to be shot out. Six to eight birds had to be left for seed stock. A bag limit was highly prized, but there was the future to think about. That included the next crop of hunters, dogs and birds.

Hunting doves and quail always took some adjustment, as the two were very different types of wing shooting. Doves would generally be longer shots. They had a tendency to bob, weave and dodge as they flew along.

The best form of concentration I ever found for dove shooting was to lock in on a mental image of trying to hit them with a water hose. Every child who has played in the yard with a hose can relate to this analogy. When a butterfly floats by and you want to give it a shower, you know that, over distance, the water travels in an arc and you must lead the flight pattern and account for the distance to intercept what you want to hit. A shotgun performs in much the same way. It is just a matter of remembering distance, arc and lead to be a fair shot when going after doves.

Quail are different. With dogs, you will often find yourself in the middle of a covey. The birds break so close and fast that the arc of your shot is not generally a factor. If a bird is rising, you usually want to shoot slightly over him. If it is dropping, shoot a bit below the bird. Put the pattern of your shot where the bird will be in the next instant, not where it is at present.

No more tips on wing shooting. Everyone has his or her own ideas anyway. Mine are probably no better, and maybe worse, than other advice one might hear, although they have worked pretty well for me over the course of my lifetime--that is, when I remember them in the heat and excitement of shooting!

I'm going to tell you about my "great uncle" L.V. 'Whitey' Wilkinson and 'Old Reb.'

Whitey was the best bird dog man I have ever seen. Hands down. He raised and trained some of the finest dogs in the country. Anyone who had him train and work their dogs, or bought one of them, praised his ability to the skies. He started with Jill, a German Shorthair. She was his first, and he loved her dearly. She had a wonderful nose and was one of the most intelligent dogs I have ever seen. She was almost human.

There were other great ones as well. Jack, the hard headed pointer. Freckles, a really talented English Setter. Pancho, an unbelievably gifted dog, with the foulest temper I have ever witnessed in a bird dog. Then, there were Doc and Sam, two outstanding Brittanys. These were the dogs with which Whitey booked hunts and formed the nucleus of his business.

My favorite, though, was a Dropper or crossbred dog named Reb. He was half-Pointer and half-Walker hound.

Reb looked, for the most part, like a Pointer. His forehead was not quite as boxy or square as a true Pointer, but otherwise he looked the part of an honest-to-goodness bird dog. He was, too. A dog has never had a finer nose than Reb's. Sometimes, it seemed he could smell where quail were going, rather than where they were or where they had been. He was an equally fine retriever. He had a gentle mouth and was only too glad to bring in a downed bird. His biggest shortcoming, in my eyes, was his reluctance to work singles or doubles. When called on he would do it, but he much preferred to pursue the larger body of the covey.

My uncle could tolerate this shortcoming. However, the two things that really drove Whitey crazy seemed of little or no consequence to me.

Reb pointed with his tail curled down between his legs. Whitey worked tirelessly, attempting to get him to hold it high, curled over his back. When released, the tail would immediately curl under to hug his stomach once again.

I admit that it was a little odd to watch Reb on point or in the process of honoring one, as his was surely not the conventional style. However, he was never false on point, and he held beautifully.

His unforgivable sin, though, lay in the fact that when birds flushed, Reb would invariably respond to the hound genes coursing through his blood. He would break into the most beautiful baritone baying you ever heard. I can still hear my uncle screaming "No!" and jumping up and down on the hat he had thrown to the ground in frustration as Reb's melodious "aarouuu, aaroouuu" echoed in the air. Reb was a wonderful dog.

Although I never was told directly what became of him, one day he just disappeared. When I asked Whitey, he averted his eyes, cleared his throat and stared into the distance with a pained look on his face.

Instinctively, I knew Reb's fate but could never push the issue, knowing it hurt my uncle. Sometimes, life demands form or style over substance. Whitey had felt compelled to make a choice. His was a business. In my bed that evening, wiping tears from my eyes, I came to realize that life is not always fair. For a boy, that is a hard concept to accept. We feel that life should be fair, and expend a good deal of effort in the living of it to make it so. When we succeed and see right triumph, we make the world we live in a better place.

Reb had been special, but with dogs and people, sometimes... that is just not enough.

Learning To Drive

2008-10-08T15:00:00.000-07:00

When I was a boy in my early teens, Dad decided that the time had come for me to learn to drive. Early one morning, he took me with him to the pasture that bordered our large, shallow lagoon on the east side of the farm. The lake had been created by one of the hurricanes that chose to descend on the south coast of Texas in the early sixties. The rains had come down so hard and fast that surrounding tanks and ponds had "gone 'round," or overflowed, taking large numbers of bass, perch and catfish in the turbulent flood waters that formed the lake, stocking it with fish at the same time.

Now, hundreds of ducks chattered and beat their wings in protest as we pulled up near the shore. The banks of an earthen dam rose from the depths, forming an island some 200 yards out in the water. My friends and I had enjoyed numerous campouts on that small knot of land. We gigged frogs, caught fish and basked under the moonlight and glimmering night sky dusted with countless stars. The smell of frying fish and frog legs swimming in butter in cast iron skillets would fill the air. After gorging ourselves, we would lie on our backs and gaze into that infinite sparkling sky, counting shooting stars and dreaming our dreams as only boys can do.

This morning, Dad eased the battered old blue Ford pickup to a stop. He showed me first, second, third gears and reverse. I had observed him driving and had some notion of how things should work with the gears. He removed the keys and tossed them into my lap as he stepped out into the lush coastal Bermuda pasture that sparkled with fresh morning dew. Wishing me luck, he slammed the door and moved away toward home, leaving a wake of green footsteps in the dazzling blanket of golden sunlight reflecting off that field of dew.

Sliding over under the wheel, I heard him rumble, "Boy your age oughta know how to drive."

"When do I need to be home?" I asked.

"When you know how to drive!" he shouted over his receding shoulder.

"Yessir!" I called out in response.

I slid over under the steering wheel and gripped it with suddenly sweaty palms. What was that sequence of gears he had shown me a minute ago? I watched Dad gain some more distance before deciding it was time to get things rolling. Shoving the key into the ignition, I gave it a twist.

The engine coughed, the truck lurched forward and my head bounced soundly off the window behind the seat. I had forgotten about the clutch! I tried to fill my mind with the things I needed to remember about driving. Realizing the truck had been left in first gear, I slid into neutral and tried again. The motor coughed to life and settled into a kind of clattering hum. Blue-grey smoke shrouded the cab in the early morning stillness. I revved the engine a time or two, eased the truck into gear, let out the clutch and held on tight as it lurched and died a second time. Feeling a bit more anxious, I bit my lip and steeled myself for the third attempt. The third time was the charm!

First gear was wonderful! I used it with a kind of desperate abandon for several minutes. I really hated the thought of leaving it for second. I knew first. I had a feel for it. Second was a great unknown. However, I finally skewered up my nerve, pounded down on the clutch and ground my way into second. The truck lurched again but didn't die like it had before.

Second was even better than first! I flew over the grass and felt the wheels slide slightly as I put her into a tight turn. Second was really fine! In fact, it seemed about all you could ask for in this pasture of some 60 odd acres. I did figure 8'S, donuts and a host of other equally destructive maneuvers, wreaking varying degrees of havoc on the quality of Dad's pasture.

Elation approached arrogance as I began to steer with one hand, resting the other with supreme confidence atop the back of the pickup seat. Minutes flew by as my sense of power and control approached godlike dimensions. The convulsive fear I had known moments earlier had faded into a distant memory.

"What about third?" I hadn't tried third!

The clutch slid to the floor. I slammed on the brake and slid the truck to a complete stop. My palms were no longer sweating. I was in control. Gunning the engine, I snapped into first gear. Gaining speed, I slid into second. Nothing to it! The motor howled as I punched third home and released the clutch. The speedometer rolled to 40,45,50 miles an hour. "Who said man wasn't meant to fly?"

It was about this time, somewhere just over 50 miles an hour that I hit the chug hole...

My head tried to force its way through the top of the truck's cab as I bounced from the seat. My vision blurred and the world tilted crazily as I swerved to narrowly miss one of the few large mesquite trees in the pasture.

Noting a new and distinct taste in my mouth, I realized that I had bitten through my tongue. Humility had returned. The heat indicator, a throbbing head and the taste in my mouth combined to turn my thoughts toward home. Presbyterians don't generally like to dwell on predestination, but fate was not yet through with me. My destiny was to center on the cedar corner post at the gap leading out of the pasture.

I had been considerably humbled. Extreme caution now dominated my actions once again.

Dad had invested heavily in an irrigation system for the farm. Our land was in an arid region near the coast of South Texas. That irrigation system meant a constant and reliable source of moisture for the farm's cattle and crops.

I faced a hard right-hand turn getting through the gap leaving the pasture. Panic set in! Through a culvert under the road ran the six-inch mainline for dad's irrigation system. From my perspective I had two choices, as the turn seemed too sharp and the road too narrow. I could either veer to the left and run over and crush the mainline or straddle the huge cedar corner post on the right... I chose the post! It bent over and snapped loudly under the onslaught of the speeding truck and my momentum almost let me clear it.

The truck died. I started it again and tried to pull forward off the shattered post. Didn't work. Resting my chin on my knuckles atop the steering wheel, I had a thought. I hadn't tried reverse today! I pushed in the clutch, feathered into reverse and popped that clutch, gunning the engine hard. The lurch backward wedged the broken post firmly in place and partially lifted the rear end of the pick up off the ground. One of the rear wheels now spun freely some four inches above the soil.

The palms of my hands were sweating again. What the hell was I going to do now? Dad would not take this well. I crept across the pasture to the tool shed situated behind the house and slipped out with a large double-bladed ax and slipped back away to the truck. Knowing I was probably done for, I crawled beneath the bed of the truck and began to chop fiercely at the post. Dad was going to kill me for sure, but I had to at least try.

My head was pounding, sweat ran into my eyes and my tongue was a source of pure agony. Sand slipped down my collar and chafed my back and shoulders as I swung that ax with all the will of my determination to live through the day. Things just could not get any worse.

A red ant had worked its way over my boot top and settled on the back of my thigh before deciding to give me a thorough going over. I scrambled to shuck my jeans, doing my level best to crush him in the process. Any of you who wear boots and jeans know just how hard it is to get out of your jeans without taking your boots off first. However, time was a significant factor here, and I was highly motivated!

Fear formed a hard knot in my throat as I heard my father's flat voice asking me what the problem was. As his face appeared beneath the running board of the truck, there must have been something in the expression on my face that softened the anger in his. I crawled from beneath the pickup and rushed through relating the series of events leading up to my decision to save the joint of his mainline pipe over the corner post.

Through my exaggerated gestures, I noticed that Dad was laughing. Tears streamed down his face. I was not going to die! With his arm on my shoulder we walked back to the house together and with the help of the Massey Ferguson tractor, soon had the truck free. Shortly afterward, the corner post had been replaced as well.

In spite of the pain and embarrassment I suffered that morning, or perhaps because of it, I learned the true meaning of redemption that fine day. In the living of his life, my Dad never forgot that he, too, had once been a boy.

I lost him on July 17th, almost three months ago, a little over an hour before daylight. The fabric of his life is so firmly woven into my world; he remains a living, viable, part of all that I see, hear and feel. He lived his life with great joy and simplicity. He was loyal, generous, trusting and giving to his friends and family. He believed in the basic goodness of people. He worked harder than any other man I've ever known. He loved without reservation. He was the kind of man that, as boys, we all knew we'd grow up to be... but didn't, quite.

Harvey's Chili

2008-09-30T06:48:00.000-07:00

On a clear day, just at dusk, mountains in Mexico could be seen from the ranch. They stood far away on the distant, shimmering line of the western horizon. The brilliant light of the setting sun would burst forth in vivid hues of orange and burgundy as the sun touched, then sank into the ground behind, them. The play of golden light on high, feathered clouds was a miracle unfolding.

Memories from youth are poignant, vivid things. They become more precious with the passage of time. Many of mine center on time spent in and around an old hunting camp on the Martinez Ranch in far Southwest Texas. Those days are now well over forty years in my past.

The small ranch house was not that unusual at first glance. I knew that it had to be fairly ancient, as I had met the old Mexican ranch hand who told me that he had been born in it and spent his early childhood living there. His face was etched with lines that looked like tiny arroyos worn into the rugged land around him. His hands had the look and color of old saddle leather, fingers gnarled with age. Those hands were steady and sure as he trickled Kite tobacco onto a tiny sheet of translucent cigarette paper. He rolled the smoke deftly and brought the flaming end of a sulphur match or Lucifer, against the tip. Looking at me through the cloud of smoke shrouding his head, his clear, green eyes would shine as he told me stories about the land.

Looking more closely at the house, you could see that it actually was different from many others. There were no windows. Instead, there were five doors--two on the front, two on the back and one on the west end. The east end of the house was dominated by a huge fireplace. From inside, the face of the fireplace was enhanced by an ancient hearth whose surface had random, shallow, bowl shaped indentions worn into it from the vigorous grinding of dried corn into masa or meal for tortillas. Heavy, black soot covered the ceiling and walls, forming layered patterns on the face of the fireplace. The chimney drew poorly, if at all.

We were enjoying an early season deer hunt on the ranch, surrounded by family and friends. The sprawling, rambling acres of the land overlapped portions of the border separating Zapata and Webb counties in the heart of the South Texas brush country. This part of the state is also known as the Wild Horse Desert. There are rolling, rocky hills covered with ceniza or purple sage as well as black brush, huisache, mesquite and varieties of cactus. Numerous dry washes or arroyos cut through the surface of the land creating sheer, dry gullies that can flood quickly in a rare sudden downpour, carrying away everything in their path. Large rattlesnakes are numerous. There are also a sizable populations of javelina, white-tail deer, bobcats, coyotes and numerous other varmints.

Richard, Randy, Pee-Wee and Charly were the other boys in the group. We ranged from 13 to 17 years of age. One of the adults had shot a fine young buck for camp meat, and we were all grateful that fresh venison would soon dominate the menu.

It had settled into a lazy evening. Dominoes were clattering on the table in the house. Good natured exchanges floated back and forth between the men as they played. While the men played dominoes, we played cards on one of the bunks in the room. The afternoon had been hot and still, but that was about to change.

Sounding like shots, two of the open doors suddenly slammed shut! A third followed closely. We came straight up out of our bunks at the sound. Strong winds rolled over and tore at the old house, forcing groans, creaks and snaps from the walls. An updraft through the chimney created a mournful howl, sounding like some large, suffering living thing. The house had withstood many such blows, but the groans it conceded to this force sounded like brittle old bones cracking and about to break. A roaring blue norther had just blown in.

The temperature plummeted, and our chief concern quickly centered on the desire to stay warm as icy cold penetrated cracks in those old walls. T.C. "Sleepy" Fine and I made for the woodpile outside against the wall. We pulled a heavy canvas tarp back from the split mesquite cord wood and raked together several armloads to stack inside by the fireplace.

Huffing from the sudden exertion I looked up into Sleepy's face. His broad smile and enthusiasm wiped away years from that face. He goosed me in the ribs, then hugged me to him when I jumped. He was chief of police in my hometown of Premont and told the funniest, most wonderful stories I ever heard. He was also my godfather. I loved him fiercely. Life had hit Sleepy hard on more than one occasion, but he faced it without illusion. What really made me love him was the fact that he also faced life without disillusion. He absolutely relished the experience of living. Enabling me to grasp and accept this distinction was his greatest gift.

Soon, a roaring fire rose to confront the vicious cold. Smoke billowed into the room from the open hearth, as the chimney refused to draw. We wedged a couple of doors open slightly in an attempt to balance our desire for warmth with the need to breathe.

Al Nivens headed one of the families on the lease. His father-in-law Harvey was a guest on this hunt. Harvey had retired as a railroad engineer and still wore the pin-striped Big Smith coveralls and matching cap from his days on the rails. He was a portly gentleman with a round, ruddy face dominated by a huge, friendly smile. I discovered that he also made the best venison chili in the entire world.

This great old man had spent the early evening hours dicing the hindquarters of a deer into tiny cubes. Now he browned the meat in the cured embrace of a large dutch oven resting on a bed of coals pulled forward from the crackling fireplace. He added chopped onions, garlic, comino, tomatoes, chili powder, flour, water and whatever other exotic ingredients he had garnered into that simmering cauldron.

Harvey's efforts would provide lunch the next day, but later that night the aroma of that chili was the sole focus of everyone in the house. Alston Brown slipped over to give the bubbling pot a quick stir. It was no surprise that the ladle found its way to his mouth. His eyes rolled back. Harvey chuckled and encouraged the rest of us to have a sample. It was just plain great, and the longer it cooked, the better it got. To this day I still dream of that chili.

We had all settled into warm, blanket-shrouded bunks when Harvey felt the urge to visit the old outhouse in the side yard. Its predecessor had been a magnificent two-seater that had succumbed to the elements years before, becoming an interesting, but useless, pile of old lumber. Bundling up, Harvey lumbered out the door.

Suddenly, we heard a scream! It was an awful sound that would not stop. It got louder, if possible, overriding the other noises in the howling wind. As we ran through the house and spilled into the yard, the fractured beam of Harvey's flashlight spilled crazily through the cracks of the walls of the outhouse.

Was it a rattlesnake? As we moved forward cautiously, the door burst open and Harvey lurched out, huge overalls shackling his ankles. Wild-eyed, he stumbled three short steps and tumbled roughly to the ground. "It went right for me!" he yelled. He shook a hand behind him in the direction of the great black open maw of a door. We poured light into the opening, and eyes glowed like small coals back at us.

There, perched on the raised lid of the seat stood the most indignant woodpecker you ever saw! Head tilted to one side, it gave an angry squawk and burst over our heads to disappear into the welcome freedom of the boundless, windy night sky.

Harvey had totally lost his sense of humor, which, of course, made matters worse. Dad, Sleepy and Al were rolling on the ground beside Harvey, lost in convulsions of helpless laughter. Dad looked at me, tears streaming down his face, tried desperately to control himself, then lost it all again.

With what dignity he could muster, Harvey fought to his feet, got his overalls up from around his ankles, and stalked back toward the house. Richard and I were behind. "It sure was a big 'un, Harvey," Richard said in solemn tones. Harvey wheeled to face us. We watched that stern glare dissolve into laughter at the sight of our awkward grins. With twinkling eyes, his arms draped our shoulders, gathering us to him. We sat at the table inside and enjoyed one more cup of chili.

I think of Harvey often and remember him fondly. His are some of the memories I treasure most from the part of my life spent on that ranch in the old house with no windows, five doors and a chimney that wouldn't draw...

The Dutchman

2008-09-22T08:00:00.000-07:00

The mid morning sun burned brightly in a cobalt blue, cloudless sky. It was hot, as only the Texas brush country in August can be. Milling cattle raised a roiling cloud of dust that hung heavily in the air. It clung to the men and cattle in and around the corral--a thickening layer of tan powder. The sound of hoofs created a constant rumble as the stock bolted back and forth. Cattle bawled their displeasure at being crowded so. Cutting gates worked open and shut, separating yearlings and smaller calves from the larger herd for branding and castrating. Cowhands called to one another as they whistled at and cajoled the cattle. One man on horseback pushed and crowded the stock as necessary. His horse focused on the cattle, and occasionally huffed when a sudden burst of speed was needed.

The Dutchman was in the corral alongside the outer fence as the cattle milled and lowed. Rivulets of sweat rolled down his face, leaving dark tracks through the dust and dirt caked there. He tapped a sideboard of the outer fence, asking me to pass his stiff lariat through to him. He grabbed the rope in his left hand, built a small loop, and sailed it out just ahead of a yearling trotting quickly past him. The yearling's head passed into the loop as he moved forward. Johnny popped the rope to draw slack and tighten the loop securely around the animal's neck. Then he quickly dallied up on the short, upright steel bar he had welded to the left arm of his wheelchair. That done, he jerked the chair sideways and set himself against the coming instant when the slack in the rope would disappear, hoping to stop and turn the calf while a cowboy ran in to leg it over so it could be worked.

The rope snapped taut, pulling the chair over on its side with a sudden, irresistible force. The Dutchman wrapped his gloved hands into the coils of the lariat and held on as he was dragged through the corral, rolling wildly in the wake of the yearling as it lunged ahead against the weight and resistance it now pulled. His lower body was limp and useless, but Johnny held the rope with a fierce determination that amazed us all. Two of the hands ran to the animal in desperate, lunging strides. One, heading the calf off and the other legging him up and over, off his feet to be worked.

Uncle Johnny chuckled, despite what he had just been through as two men, one lifting under each shoulder, brought him up and back into his battered old chair. He thanked them for their help and turned his attention back to the work unfolding around him. His shouted instructions and encouragement soon had things flowing smoothly again.

Years earlier, Johnny had started the herd buying canners and cutters from some of the Jersey herds at dairies in the area. He had saved and bought fine Beefmaster bulls from the breed's foundation herd on the Miller ranch southwest of Falfurrias, Texas. Johnny Friesen had now bred up a bunch of cattle that were as fine as any to be found. He was proud of his cattle, and I was proud of him.

The Dutchman had been raised near Premont by a hard working family. His father was a truck farmer who raised tomatoes and other vegetables that he hauled to market in the larger surrounding cities.

As a young man, World War II pulled Johnny into its embrace with countless other young men of his generation. He joined the Navy and served in the Pacific as an ensign on a submarine. During the Battle of the Coral Sea, depth charges repeatedly rolled off the hull of their ship. He was infinitely proud of that service and time in the Navy. He once told me a story of being on leave in Honolulu during the war. He and some other crew members were celebrating in a local bar. A group of marines came in demanding space and attention. Johnny asked the men who they thought they were? "United Stated Marines," came the proud reply!
"Oh," Johnny smiled. "You mean the Third Marines," he exclaimed.
"Whaddaya mean, the third marines?" the rowdy asked.
"Well," Johnny mused. "The First Marines are the Submarines," he smiled. "The Second Marines are the Merchant Marines, and the Third Marines are the U.S. Marines!" He hooted! A grand fight ensued that he obviously still remembered fondly.

Johnny was injured just after the war and paralyzed from the chest down, but he never slowed down. He farmed, ranched and lived life fully, never conceding a thing to his injury. He irrigated crops, plowed, bailed hay, worked cattle and drove himself wherever he needed to go. He was a devoted husband and raised a fine family and had grandchildren whom he loved dearly. The Dutchman was one of the people who touched my boyhood in a profound way. Uncle Johnny was, and remains, larger than life in my world. He was a man confined to a wheelchair, but never, in any way, defined by it.

The Island

2008-09-17T06:09:00.000-07:00

My summer days were marked by warm gulf breezes sliding under billowing cumulus clouds. Breezes that blew over freshly cut fields of cane hay drying in the shimmering heat of a sunny July afternoon. While curing before bailing, the crushed stems gave off a scent that made me hungry for its sweetness. It was not unusual to find me chewing on a freshly cut stalk as I wandered those fields enjoying the vibrant world around me.

The breezes also carried sounds of cattle lowing at their calves, keeping them from wandering too far afield. Mixed in as well, were the piping, brassy whistles of male Bob White Quail in the frenzy of their mating cycle. That summons was returned by the short, plaintive chirps of the hens. It was common to observe two or three of these small, fierce cocks descend on a lady to compete vigorously for her favor. Aggressive posturing and open combat were often the direct result of these confrontations.

I quickly learned to imitate the calls of both the cocks and hens and was able to call in a hen or a couple of frantic males who, upon seeing each other, would charge into fierce battle and seem to forget the fickle damsel that had brought them together in the first place.

Summer temperatures would often top 100 degrees. Air conditioning was still relatively rare in those days. The best way to escape the heat was to go swimming. My friends and I did this as often as possible. There were various ponds scattered on our place as well as on neighboring ranches. They were a necessity for anyone running cattle in the brush country. Dad had a 90 acre pasture he had cleared on the west side of the place we called the lagoon as it was low and would catch and retain water when we had a good rain. After clearing most of the brush, he had a large pond or tank dug out in the lowest spot in the pasture. It was stocked with large mouth bass and catfish. We often camped out and fished on its banks under the dark velvet canopy of a huge Texas sky dusted with stars.

Hurricane Beulah came through and transformed our tank and dam completely. It became a horseshoe shaped island in the middle of roughly half a section of water! The waters surrounding our island ranged from ankle to some six feet in depth. The boggy bottom gave the water a murky grey-brown texture and provided fodder for mud fights of huge proportions. The island became our base of operations through that wonderful lazy summer.

We structured a primitive raft from the ancient sideboard of an abandoned trailer. Flotation was made possible by lashing empty oil drums beneath each end of the vessel. It was a very unstable craft and would overturn with great frequency. This was no real problem as we loved being wet anyway. However, as we learn in life, trouble is always lurking around a dark corner.

An early rendezvous had been called early one Sunday morning. Slipping away from the house, I answered the roster in my church clothes. During the course of the meeting, a short voyage around the island was suggested and agreed upon. Wearing my dress clothes made me a bit hesitant to board, but a vote of all hands present and solemn assurances that great care would be observed overrode my concerns.

Todo, Grant and Buster were already on the deck and I soon joined them. The morning was beautiful. Several trees rose mutely from the surface, maintaining a lonely vigil over the surrounding waters. These reflected in the rippling, golden light of the newly risen sun dancing on its surface.

As we poled the raft through the glassy surface, a water moccasin glided across the bow with a graceful see-sawing motion, leaving a delicate rippling wake in its path. Buster rose from his kneeling position on the deck with a look of open wonder on his face. He extended his right arm, right hand and index finger shaking furiously, and shouted "Look," loud enough to raise the dead.

I noticed the even line of the horizon begin to shift. When it was closing on a forty-five degree angle, I realized that all hands had abandoned ship. As the raft continued to tilt, I sensed that she would soon complete her roll. I lunged at a nearby tree limb in a frantic, hopeless effort to stay dry.

I caught that limb and hung on for dear life! Within a few seconds my fingers were going numb and I realized that my legs were submerged to my knees. Resigned that there was no escape, I released my hold and slid beneath the surface to join my friends.

We caroused and played shamelessly for twenty minutes or so before the reality of my situation really set in. Emerging from the water, filled with remorse, I chastised Buster. He smiled and shrugged his shoulders. After all, he said fate had sent the snake to us and who could argue with fate?

I tried to be truly repentant in church that sultry Sunday morning. I knew that my mother's limits of patience had been severely tested once again. An occasional drop of sweat rolled down my neck into my collar. Hot air in the sanctuary recirculated around us through the constant hum of a large upright electric fan placed in the rear of the room. I noticed that folks smelled different in church clothes than they did in everyday ones, and I smiled at the memories of earlier that morning as the sermon droned on.

I recall the pastor saying, "The young pine knows the secrets of the ground. The old pine knows the stars." I retain no real memories of the rest of the sermon, but for some reason those words hung into me. I have thought of them from time to time over the years. I'm now long past those days of shuffling around with my hands crammed in my pockets and my shirt tail half out.

Reflecting on them now, I sometimes feel the reverse is true, at least where humans are concerned. As a boy, my child's eye would let me reach up, gathering in armfuls of those stars to sift through my fingers. That trick's not as easy to pull off as it once was.

I may not have known redemption that sultry Sunday morning, but there was an aura of contentment with me on that hard oak pew. Keeping it company was my mother's reproving glance, an occasional lopsided grin of my father's and the faint scent of moss and stagnant mud from the waters surrounding "The Island."

A Noise From The Basement

2008-09-12T13:52:00.000-07:00

Dad and I had been left to our own devices... As was sometimes the case, the absence of my mother's mitigating influence allowed an interesting situation to evolve that would never have had a snowball's chance in her presence. Thinking back, it's amazing that she left Dad and I alone as often as she did.

Mother and little sister had driven from the farm to the city of Corpus Christi, Texas. They had a doctor's appointment and planned to use the balance of the day shopping for a new outfit or two.

After lunch, I was sprawled on the side porch of the house, gouging seeds from a slice of cool watermelon. Closing my eyes, I can still almost taste the icy sweetness of that melon from so many years ago, its juice trickling down my chin and being wiped away on the damp sleeve of my shirt, leaving a sticky film in its place.

Dad was gathering tools and supplies that were tossed in the back of his old Ford pick up truck to repair fences damaged by a yearling calf overcome by wanderlust. Alston Brown pulled up through the ruts leading to the house and braked. As he stopped a plume of caliche dust rolled over and past his truck. It was soon swept away in the strong, warm, coastal breeze. Alston owned the local hardware in town and contracted plumbing and electrical work for people in and around the nearby town of Premont.

His truck was a source of ongoing wonder to me. It was filled with a large variety of interesting things. Plumbing and electrical supplies were tossed randomly into the bed of the pick up. There were numerous tools, a lariat rope, a shotgun, magazines, a partial case of Mail Pouch chewing tobacco and countless other items of general interest as they might prove useful or of some value at some point in the future. I loved that truck, and busied myself taking inventory of new or previously overlooked items as he and Dad greeted each other.

Some time had passed before I noticed the two of them grinning, nodding and looking my way, knowingly. Dad gestured with a wave of his arm that I should join them. I bailed out of the bed of the truck and trotted over to find out what was up. I wasn't disappointed as Alston told me that he had come into possession of an extremely fine specimen of a young Javelina, or peccary.

These are small hog-like animals native to the dry, brushy coastal regions of South Texas.They also range into West Texas, Southern New Mexico and the desserts of Arizona. In the wild their diet consists of the roots of various cactus, snakes, insects and careless small rodents. They are very social and roam in groups or "packs" that range in number from three or four to twenty or so. Their sense of smell and hearing are excellent. The major handicap they live with is that of being extremely near-sighted. When a young javelina is captured, they tame very quickly and make excellent pets. A small one will readily adopt a human as its parent and become extremely affectionate and protective in their presence. However, they are also apt to inflict serious injury to any other animal or person perceived as a threat to their adopted parent or themselves.

It was Alston's judgment, with Dad's consent, that I would be the perfect choice to rear this little pig. I never understood how he convinced Dad that his choice was logical as well. All I knew was that he had been successful, and my boy's gratitude knew no bounds. We went into town, stopped at Alston's house and claimed my new pet. I was thrilled to see that the small female was quite gentle and instantly responded to my caresses and scratching on her stomach and behind her ears. We were inseparable from the first. Dad and I began to ponder where we could keep her on the way home. There was no suitable pen or enclosure for her.

We finally came up with an obvious, if temporary, solution. The farmhouse had a basement. It was nothing fancy, you understand. It had an earthen floor and was, for all practical purposes, largely unfinished. We both knew and agreed that Mother would never approve of this choice on a permanent basis, but that it should be alright as we expected to have a pen prepared tomorrow anyway. Surely, we could get away with it for one night.

Exchanging knowing glances, we realized the value of silence in this particular situation. Just for tonight, mum was the word! Pulling up to the house, we carried my new friend into the cellar and brought down the watermelon I had been working on earlier. She relished it hugely. It looked like this was all going to work out fine after all.

Swinging the cellar doors back into place, we saw Mom and sister return home within a very few minutes. Relieved that we had not been caught in the act, we followed the women into the house, and Mother began recanting events from the day as she prepared supper. She loved her trips to Corpus.

Somewhat later, the meal being set, we gathered around the table, and followed Dad's lead. Clasping hands and bowing our heads, Dad began to give thanks. In the middle of his first sentence a distinct sound rose, then faded slowly away. "Waaaaaank," it resounded. I cautiously cracked an eye open, glanced at Pop and saw his knuckles go white.

His eyes opened slightly and rolled in my direction. "What was that sound?" Mother asked. "Something outside, I guess," was my nervous reply. Dad, much to his credit, smiled, closed his eyes, and tried to continue. The sound rose again. "Waaaaaank," it reverberated!

Mother sat up very straight and slapped her palms loudly, flat down on the table top! As she rose, I could see the small veins protruding on her forehead. A muscle worked strongly in her firmly set jaw. I looked at Dad with wide eyes. This was going to be very bad.

"There's a #%$&*%! HOG in MY house!", She bellowed. I felt the blood drain from my face. I had never heard Mother curse before. It was no small surprise to discover that she could do a really bang up job of it! Glancing once again at Dad, I saw his left eye twitch slightly. Outrage was a woefully inadequate word to describe Mom's level of distress.

We finished supper in an aura of stony silence. Dad and I went through the mechanics of finishing a meal that we no longer had any appetite for. This was one time I was grateful not to be an adult.

In later years we would come to recall that evening to the sounds of laughter and good natured kidding. It was a time, however brief, that my mother lost her religion...and I discovered mine.

I did get to keep the pig...

Beginnings

2008-09-05T16:12:00.000-07:00

I'm not sure just how old the farm house really is. Dad put its true age at somewhere over 75 years, but that was some 45 years ago.

We moved to the farm from the small coastal Texas plains town of Premont when I was three years old. Memories of living in town are few and, for the most part, indistinct. They consist mainly of pinching ripe, sweet strawberries from the yard of our neighbors, Wilmer and Estelle Schneider.

I had a pet Boston bull dog, Fritz. We got caught under the tool shed sharing a bone in the cool, damp soil in the crawlspace. Mother could see our eyes shining in the dark recesses beneath the floor as we took turns gnawing on the bone. No amount of threats or cajoling would get either of us to budge. A good scolding was one thing, but even at this early age I could appreciate a strategic advantage. I was not about to give up a secure hiding place and expose myself to the distinct possibility of having my bottom dusted. Fritz and I couldn't figure out just what was wrong with Mother, anyway.

My horizons expanded considerably with our move to the country.

I was a child used to struggling to escape the confines of a chain link fence around a small city lot. The farm presented infinite possibilities.

Dad had stopped plowing and stepped down from his tractor to visit with a friend in the heat of a lazy summer afternoon. I worked my way over to the tractor while he and Alston Brown exchanged greetings. Even then, I had come to love the rich smell of freshly turned earth, watching the roil of soil play out behind the plow. As Dad settled into his conversation with Alston, I crept beneath the huge wheels, pulled myself aboard, ground into first gear and headed for the back forty, leaving an erratic set of wonderful rich smelling furrows in my wake. I was a real farmer! Dad kept a much closer eye on me and the key to the tractor in his pocket after that.

With the passage of a few years, I came to accept the constraints of public school with some degree of resignation. When the final bell rang to free us for the balance of the Fall afternoons, those hours were filled in the pursuit of jackrabbits or quail with an old Remington single shot 22 that Dad had passed on to me from his boyhood. He had first hunted with it as a boy in 1927.

Various friends would accompany me on these outings, and it is a great source of pleasure that most of us are still in contact with each other despite the passage of considerable time. I was no more or less bloodthirsty than the boys I grew up with and we all dearly loved hunting and anything to do with the outdoors. It is a passion that I retain to this day.

One of my favorite quarries in those days happened to be rattlesnakes. They were plentiful, and the chance of an encounter with one was a constant possibility. I was always bringing snakes home. I would skin them and salt the hides. After curing, I would work Neetsfoot oil into the brittle, salty skins and sell them for belts and hat bands.

My interest in wildlife went well beyond simple hunting. I wanted to learn all I could about the variety of creatures inhabiting the world of my youth. As a result of that curiosity, I came to rear and possess a menagerie of animals. These included raccoons,deer, cottontail rabbits and javelina. The latter got me into, by far, my most serious fall from grace, in the eyes of my mother, that I was to experience for many years to come.

You know, that might be as good a place to start fanning these embers as any. You will see that I had a pretty fine childhood.

I hope I never grow out of it...